


alabaster blue, lion/girl

by turkeymagic



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Childhood Trauma, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Revolution, Time Travel, and generational responsibility, but mostly BL and BE, deliberations on desperation, mysterious sothis powers, no recruitment run, not a golden ending fic, spoilers for all routes, to the degree that I remember canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2020-12-14 16:57:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21019148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turkeymagic/pseuds/turkeymagic
Summary: In which Dimitri travels back in time to save Edelgard, armed only with a hazy memory of the past, the body of his dead (?) professor, and a legion of ghosts who hate him.





	1. Byleth

Five years after the millenium festival, the archbishop disappears again. This time, Dimitri is entangled in some succession dispute in Rowe and fails to give the matter any attention when Seteth’s messenger announces it. There was no warning, nor any signs of a struggle. The evidence, improper as the idea is, all points to the archbishop choosing to leave the monastery in silence.

Every month, another messenger from the church arrives with the same notice, written in Seteth’s even hand: the archbishop has not returned, please keep an eye out, open for discussion of reward for accurate news. After three of these - and a strongly-worded letter from Felix demanding the palace at least send out scouts, if only so the church’s believers stop panicking en masse - Dimitri still holds fast to his belief that the archbishop will return.

Whether it’s providence or superhuman determination, his old teacher has never failed them.

But even Dimitri is surprised when Dedue informs him that the archbishop is waiting in the king’s private rooms. 

“What do you suppose a goddess is?” are the first words out of the archbishop’s mouth when Dimitri greets him, before Dimitri even has a chance to shut the door behind him.

“Is that a serious question?” Dimitri asks.

The archbishop looks at him, then sits on the chaise lounge set out for guests. He probably disturbs a few years’ worth of dust, for all the guests Dimitri entertains here. “I suppose not.”

“I imagine the goddess is...kind,” Dimitri answers anyway. “She’s benevolent. But powerful. Perhaps she’s lonely, and that’s why she made people. Why she watches over us. Not unlike yourself.”

“Hm,” the archbishop says, his face going blank in that familiar way. Though Dimitri would no longer describe him as impassive, there are still moments where he lapses into the same stony-faced mercenary from that first night Dimitri had seen him – and goddess, save for his green hair, now long and trailing down his sacred white mantle, the archbishop hasn’t changed at all after all these years. “Here.”

He holds out a clenched fist and drops a small crest stone into Dimitri’s palm. Surprised, Dimitri inspects it. The engraving resembles the crest of Dominic, a little, with a small ring in the center, framed by a large jagged mark under it, and a smaller M mark just above. It’s crowned with a dot.

It’s an Alliance crest, Dimitri thinks, or, well, it used to be an Alliance crest.

“Ordelia,” the archbishop says. “That’s where I was. I heard you were looking.”

“Seteth was…displeased,” Dimitri says wryly, closing his fingers around the crest stone. “I knew you’d come back sooner or later. I’m glad it was sooner but you’ve always operated on a different timeline than us.”

“Not too worried, I hope.” The archbishop leans back in the chaise, closing his eyes. He lets Dimitri gaze upon him for a few more seconds before, “Lysithea passed away.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Dimitri says. There’s nothing else really to say; Dimitri knows better than most how few words penetrate grief. He recalls Lysithea from their academy days, brilliant and small and burning fast. She was at Gronder Field, he thinks, had been injured then. After the war she’d simply gone home. He hadn’t heard of her since then.

“She knew she was dying, but she just…” The archbishop opens his eyes again with a slight shake of his head. “Do you regret it?”

“Every day,” Dimitri says. There’s no need for clarification. His answer is the same.

“I buried the relic she had,” the archbishop says. “One of Gloucester’s, I think. But I took that so no one would have cause to unearth it again.”

The crest stone has a few sharp edges that dig into the flesh of Dimitri’s palm. “I’ll put it in the vault,” he promises.

The archbishop smiles at him, long and slow. “What,” he says, and has to pause when his voice fails him for a second. “If you could wish for anything, what would you wish for?”

“Come now. You know the answer to that one,” Dimitri says, finally taking a seat next to him. He leans back, looks up at the ceiling, vaulted high above their heads and yet intricately and delicately decorated. “I wish all of it had been different. I wish I could have saved her. I wish she could have been saved.”

He knows the archbishop had picked the knife up later. Offered it, just once, to Dimitri, and kept it afterward when Dimitri refused. He knows the archbishop grieves the loss of so many students, so many children. A grief different than Dimitri’s. For all that he’s only a few years older than Dimitri, he’s always felt more like a mentor, a guardian angel, than a peer.

“What would you wish for?” Dimitri asks.

The archbishop’s lips twitch upward. “I wish you’d call me by my name.”

Dimitri sighs. “You won’t find it strange? You were my teacher once.”

“It’s not strange,” the archbishop says. “No one’s called me by it for a very long time. It’s lonely.”

Brushing a few stray hairs away from his face, Dimitri relents. He’s weak to these things, of course. Others have commented on the unusual…distance with which Dimitri beholds the archbishop. Dimitri is aware how under the right light, he could be called obtuse; even calling the archbishop “Professor” sounds childish.

But, well, he just wants to hold onto that childishness a little longer. For all that the archbishop means to Dimitri…all that he’s done, all that he’s seen and knows…how could Dimitri treat him the same as Sylvain and all the others?

“Byleth,” Dimitri says.

The archbishop blinks once, twice. “Again,” he requests, so Dimitri obliges. But the second time, the archbishop’s smile turns wistful. “Thank you, Dimitri. I have another wish. It’s…almost impossible, I think.”

“I have no room to judge,” Dimitri says, aiming for light-hearted and missing. He rolls his shoulders back. “I am the king of Faerghus. Fódlan. If it’s anything in my power, know that I will not deny you.”

Shifting in his seat, the archbishop lifts a hand and sets it atop Dimitri’s head. The gesture is almost grandfatherly in its tenderness. It’s been a long time since he’s touched Dimitri – a long time since he’s touched anyone, Dimitri thinks, for how the archbishop’s hand lingers. After he’d donned the archbishop’s regalia, even the other Lions had stopped seeking out casual physical contact with their old professor. It simply wasn’t done with someone of the archbishop’s stature, to say little of the responsibilities keeping them apart for so long.

“I wish,” the archbishop begins, “we were satisfied with the way things ended up.” His voice is gentle; the words are piercing.

“…yeah,” Dimitri says. There are no words to describe that pain, made all the more terrible for the knowledge that they share it.

_ We did what we had to_, he thinks. They’re words he’s heard often, from Felix or Ingrid or Mercedes. Now Dimitri is king, his friends lords and ladies, the same as their parents before them with all the same responsibilities. More, even, with the rest of Fódlan under their care. Their old professor guides the faithful, shaping their religion into a fervent belief he does not understand.

They are the Goddess-blessed, sacrificed so much to be called so. But in the end, it seems that the blessing is not sweeter for all that it cost them.

The archbishop’s hand drops to where Dimitri’s hand lies on the chaise lounge between them, still holding the crest stone. Intertwining their fingers so that the stone is pressed against both their palms, the archbishop murmurs, “Forgive me.”

Immediately, the hairs on Dimitri’s arm stand on end. “What? Have you done something?” he asks. He can’t remember a single time the archbishop has ever begged forgiveness. Dimitri recognizes the tone too, the trembling timbre of desperation.

“Not yet,” the archbishop says with another strained smile. “I merely fear that you will be…terribly angry once I do.”

A little wounded, Dimitri says, “After all this time, you think I would hold anything against you?”

“You never forget, Dimitri,” the archbishop says. “So I ask of you: remember me. No matter where you go, I will be with you. And I hope that one day you’ll understand me when I say I’m sorry I can’t be the one to save you.”

“You’re scaring me, Byleth, you sound like you’re going to – “ is all that Dimitri can get out before the archbishop yanks hard on Dimitri’s hand, pulling them flush against each other. He feels the archbishop’s breath against his neck, the archbishop’s heartbeat reverberating around the room – unless the beat is Dimitri’s own, thunderous and rapid and unending like a stampede of hooves – the archbishop is gone and so is the room, whirling around Dimitri like an indecipherable kaleidoscope of color and noise – Dimitri is on his throne and then in the thick of battle and then thrust back into the darkness and – Felix’s abrasive voice cuts loud above the clamor – there’s blood against him and a sword in his hand – someone is beside him, behind him? raising the hair on the back of his neck, which is short now? – he’s back at the monastery, and impossible, impossible scene – and then before any of it actually registers in Dimitri’s mind, he feels his entire being jerk to a stop and then

everything

is

still.

…

He wakes with a jolt.

Someone is inside his room. Though the groggy haze of morning, he knows intimately that it’s someone he cares about. Professor? Dedue? But the person hauls him up bodily off the bed is someone he doesn’t recognize at first.

“Time to wake up, kid,” the grizzled man says. He has light brown hair cropped short on the sides and a respectable beard to match. Small scars decorate his face, like Dedue, but this man has lighter skin and his grip on Dimitri’s arm is rougher than Dedue would ever handle him. “What’s up with you today?” the man mutters.

Dimitri tears his arm out of the man’s grip, rubbing it without thinking. “You, who…?” he starts, but trails off as he gets a good look at his surroundings. These are certainly not the king’s rooms. It looks to be…a small hut in some village. Not Fhirdiad. It’s dark out – early morning, maybe – and Dimitri’s been sleeping in a single bed, with only one pillow and a thin cotton sheet for cover. “Where have you taken me?”

The man scoffs. “Our next job is in the Kingdom, remember? It’s a long ride so we gotta set out at dawn.”

“Excuse me?” Dimitri says, automatically reaching for his lance even though he knows kidnappers wouldn’t have left him one – and then he’s surprised to find both a dagger and a sword at his bedside. They’re nothing fancy, just common weapons any armed traveler might commission from a blacksmith, but they’re certainly not Dimitri’s.

“Kid?” the man asks, his brows knitting together like he’s worried, and only then does Dimitri place where he’s seen this man before.

Standing before him, looking at Dimitri like he knows him, is the Blade Breaker. Jeralt. The professor’s father.

The professor.

Dimitri flinches automatically at the memory of the archbishop drawing him close in what Dimitri can now only describe as a parting embrace. The archbishop – _ Byleth _ had done something, something he feared Dimitri would never forgive him for. What kind of farce is this? Had Byleth drugged him somehow? Brought Dimitri here to face a parade of the dead?

He looks around wildly, searching for anyone hiding in the room, anyone watching them, any hint of green hair. But there’s no one, no one but the ghosts who follow him always. All of them are deathly silent as Jeralt steps into Dimitri’s space again, reaching out with both hands to steady him, but Dimitri knocks his arms away with enough force to break down a door.

But Jeralt doesn’t rear back in pain; he weathers the blow and clamps a solid grip on both Dimitri’s shoulders. “Hey. Hey, kid, what’s wrong? You’re scaring me.”

Dimitri inhales sharply. Was the Blade Breaker really this strong? No, the Blade Breaker was ten years dead. This lookalike, whoever he is, to withstand such a strike from Dimitri…

“Say something, will ya?” Jeralt rumbles. “Did you have that dream again?”

“A dream?” Dimitri repeats weakly. “I…”

This is the dream, he should say. Jeralt is dead and Dimitri belongs ensconced in the impenetrable walls of Castle Fhirdiad. But the words won’t come out, suffocated by a sudden and intense terror that they aren’t true.

“Damn, everyone’s already waiting for us,” Jeralt says, looking out the window at the line of shadows milling outside. More of the dead, Dimitri thinks. But no, he can hear the chatter of their voices through the door. “C’mon, kid, you can wake up on the ride north but we gotta get goin’.”

He releases Dimitri with a loud sigh, then crosses to the door in five large strides and is outside before Dimitri can react. His departure leaves the room still. Still and colder, without Jeralt’s presence. Dimitri takes a hesitant step forward. His body moves, which is almost as relieving as it is confusing.

He is, Dimitri decides, probably not in a hostage situation. He’s been left with weapons, unfamiliar as they are, and can apparently move freely. Besides, the professor wouldn’t _ kidnap _ Dimitri, even for whatever unspeakable, unforgiveable…thing he had in mind. Alone, Dimitri can recognize that.

_ No matter where you go, I will be with you. _ The professor’s last words. They’re the words people say to those they cannot follow, Dimitri knows that. So wherever he is now, it’s unlikely the professor is here too.

It’s just…Dimitri and Not-Jeralt, then. Off to do…whatever the professor’s unbidden objective was. Dimitri picks up the scabbard he’d been left, wishing he’d brushed up on his swordplay at all recently. The belt beside it is not his either. None of the clothes, as far as Dimitri can tell without a good mirror, belong to him. He’s wearing some kind of long black doublet – well-made, he thinks, to withstand the elements, which was thoughtful of whoever had dressed him. Beside the bed, carefully folded, is a black sleeved cloak; on top of it are a pair of black vambraces and knee plates, as well as fitted waist plates to secure the sword and dagger.

The ensemble together is cohesive, but not something Dimitri would have gravitated towards, and honestly a little eclectic to pick out for someone. But he thinks the style is something the professor might have enjoyed, which sends a spike of loneliness through his stomach. Did the professor choose these out for Dimitri, knowing…whatever he knew?

Dimitri straps them on. He does feel closer to Byleth this way, he thinks. The clothes fit perfectly. By the door are a pair of black boots, which fit Dimitri as well. He approaches the door dressed for combat. When he gives the room a last once-over, the dead stare vacantly back at him: his father and step-mother, Glenn and Rodrigue, the guards who gave their lives for him and the Duscur people who died in their names. There’s a flicker of movement in the corner, and for a second Dimitri is certain he sees the professor’s blank face watching him. But when he turns his head to get a better luck, there’s no one there.

“I remember you,” Dimitri says clearly. “Byleth. Whatever you sent me here for, I will do it.”

Nobody answers him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what do you even call the things m!byleth wears??


	2. Dimitri

“Took you long enough, kid!” Jeralt calls when Dimitri steps outside. He looks relieved having Dimitri up and about, though Dimitri can’t work out why. He wonders where the professor found him, this uncanny lookalike. The other men here, Dimitri doesn’t recognize, though all of them are armed. “Sun’s almost up.”

“Apologies,” Dimitri says. “You mentioned we were going to the Kingdom?”

“That’s right. Some noble is having trouble with highwaymen apparently,” Jeralt says, which is troubling for a couple of reasons. There had been a brief upsurge of banditry post-war but Dimitri had made an effort to stamp it out quickly and relieve any regions whose people had grown desperate. But more importantly, it means that Dimitri is no longer in the Kingdom currently; why would the professor take him far away if his “mission” had him returning?

Dimitri surveys his surroundings like they might offer any insight and freezes.

He recognizes this. Possibly the only village in all of Fódlan Dimitri could recognize. The screams of the people here are burned in his memory, another in a series of nightmares Dimitri can’t forget. But the village was lost in the empire’s experiments, and no one rebuilt it throughout the war. Remire Village died when Dimitri was seventeen. Yet here it stands, every building unscathed, if rickety.

It can’t be a replica, can it? Such a thing is impossible. This goes beyond mimicry; Dimitri has stood on this ground before, walked this path. The dead have followed Dimitri out of the hut. They haunt Remire now, have claimed this land as theirs. For the first time, the thought strikes Dimitri: is he finally dead now, one of them, when death had seemed outside his grasp for so long?

“Jeralt! Sir!” Dimitri’s attention is drawn to a man who runs up to them; briefly he is distracted by the fact the man called Jeralt by name as well. An assumed persona, maybe? But he isn’t given much time to contemplate how unsettling it is because the man continues, “We ran into these kids in the woods.”

Trailing behind him cautiously are three faces that stop Dimitri’s heart cold. Jeralt asks them something, Dimitri thinks, but he can’t hear what it is when all he can focus on is _ her_. He’d forgotten this; no, that’s not right. He could never forget any part of Edelgard. But she’s young here, not like the deadly woman Dimitri slew in Enbarr. There are ribbons in her hair. She looks at them with wide, clear eyes - straightforward as ever, but still cordial.

At her shoulder, a step behind her, is a mirror image of Dimitri when he was younger. On the other side of him is Claude, still round-faced and chipper. All three are dressed in their academy uniforms.

Dimitri draws the sword at his belt. “What’s going on here?” he says, and can’t help that his voice lowers to a growl.

The kids - because that’s what they are, Goddess, whether they are actors or spirits or just damned lookalikes - all step back, reaching for their own weapons automatically. But they don’t brandish them at Dimitri, merely on the defensive.

“Woah! We promise we aren’t spies or something!” Claude blurts out.

“Kid, it’s fine!” Jeralt says, holding his hand out to stay Dimitri’s blade.

“Please, we’re being pursued by bandits and we’re outnumbered,” the fake Dimitri says. He makes the choice to move his hands away from his lance and hold them out in front of him. “We only came to ask if you might help us.”

“We were separated from our camp,” Edelgard says. Her voice makes Dimitri weak at the knees. It sounds exactly like he remembers. Even as he clenches his fist around his sword’s hilt, he’s trembling.

“Bandits, huh… I’m impressed you kids stayed calm all things considered,” Jeralt says.

Everything about the situation is the same, except… the professor isn’t here, or rather - but Dimitri can’t bring himself to finish that terrible thought and all its implications. He doesn’t know what’s going on, just that he’s lived through this before. But now…

A man Dimitri safely guesses is a mercenary yells to Jeralt, “Bandits spotted just outside the village! Damn… There’s a lot of them.”

“Guess we have no choice,” Jeralt mutters. He looks at Dimitri. “You good for a fight, kid?”

Dimitri’s not sure, but he says, “Yeah, let’s go.” Fighting is something he knows, at the very least, and… he needs to see. He needs to see this through.

The bandits are the same, down to the man - at least, to Dimitri’s shaky recollection. The one difference now is that he cuts them down easily. Edelgard, Claude, and the other Dimitri creep through the brush with visible apprehension, and though they carry their weapons well, their movements lack any trained fluidity. Fortunately they have the sense to let Dimitri lead. 

He’s dispensing with one of the few remaining bandits when he hears the other Dimitri shout, “Edelgard, watch out!” Wrenching the sword out of a new corpse, Dimitri spins around and sees the last bandit launch a desperate charge at Edelgard, his axe clutched in both hands overhead.

Time slows down, and Dimitri’s vision darkens around the edges until all he can see is Edelgard spinning around, too slow to parry the strike. Her lips part to allow a startled gasp as her eyes land on bandit, register his war cry and the axe. Her body is small, so small.

“No!” The yell tears itself out of Dimitri’s lungs, and he hurls himself forward with the sword in front of him. It catches the bandit in the ribs, slides right through the flesh and stops three-quarters of the way through the man’s torso. The impact sends the man sprawling to the side, his eyes bulging as he releases his axe to grasp futilely at his stomach. Then he drops, dead, to the dirt.

Dimitri gasps for air; Edelgard is safe, but is she really? Dimitri killed her already, buried her body and everything. She’s dead. This can’t be the real Edelgard, can it? As a copy, she’s perfect. The whole scene is exactly as Dimitri remembers. But if it’s real, Dimitri should kill her again, shouldn’t he, after all he sacrificed to destroy her the first time?

He drops the sword, drops to his knees, viscerally afraid without knowing what, exactly, he fears - that Edelgard will die or that she won’t? That he was right to kill her or that it changed nothing or that it changed everything?

Distantly, he hears Jeralt drop from his horse and run over, slinging an arm around Dimitri and murmuring into his ear, “Let me see, did he get you, are you hurt?” but Dimitri doesn’t answer because the ghosts are closing in. His father steps closer, his face so young it’s the splitting image of Dimitri himself. He never got the chance to age and his killer is right over there and Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd opens his mouth and snarls, “She’s the enemy. She killed me.”

More voices then:

“If you really loved me, you should hate her.”

“My killer goes free!”

“Why did you survive but not me?”

Dimitri knows they aren’t real, has heard all their words now. So he forces his eyes open. Jeralt is there, lips moving, eyes intent on Dimitri’s, and just over Jeralt’s shoulder is a ghost Dimitri hasn’t seen before but would recognize anywhere.

The professor looks at Dimitri with wide, curious eyes, like he’s never seen Dimitri before. He’s the only ghost who doesn’t speak, doesn’t move at all, except for long, slow blinks. “Please,” Dimitri breathes. “Please stop this, please, I’m sorry - ”

The ghost draws back, but his eyes still bore into Dimitri’s, wide green eyes that make the professor’s handsome face look almost alien. Then the professor turns away to leave, and Dimitri lunges out of Jeralt’s arms, shouting, “No! Please! Byleth, Professor, please, forgive me, forgive me - ” He stumbles, his body reeling from the lurch to an upright position, and he falls back to the ground.

Jeralt goes, “Woah! Byleth? Byleth, kid - ” and then goes silent for lack of anything to say.

The ghosts are gone, turned their back with the professor. The kids stare at Dimitri in a mix of confusion and fear. Edelgard thins her lips; he must appear out of his mind to her. Claude’s eyebrows are raised almost to his hairline. The other Dimitri… no, Dimitri can’t look at him.

The silence is broken by the clamor of armored footsteps. If Dimitri recalls correctly, it’s Alois arriving with his Knights of Seiros. The man’s jubilant voice carries through the pin-silent woods. “The Knights of Seiros are here! Oh? Looks like the bandits have been taken care of?”

“Damnit, not now,” Jeralt mutters. Dimitri only hears him because they’re so close. Jeralt starts to stand up but returns to Dimitri almost immediately. “Hey, kid, talk to me. What’s wrong? Are you feeling sick?”

“Captain Jeralt?! Is that you? It’s me, Alois! What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Dimitri feels Jeralt sigh with his entire body. He pulls away, finally facing Jeralt and seeing him. “A-apologies. I’m fine now.”

Jeralt looks like he doesn’t believe him, but there’s no time to argue. Alois runs up to them and beams when he finds them unharmed. “Who’s this, Captain Jeralt? Is this your kid?”

“No,” Dimitri says at the same time Jeralt draws to his feet and says, “You haven’t changed at all, Alois.”

He sends Dimitri a probing stare as Alois laughs. “He has your sense of humor, Captain Jeralt!”

“Drop it with that captain stuff. I’m just a mercenary now,” Jeralt says.

“Hm! Well, I always knew you were alive! Thank you for protecting our students,” Alois says. Claude whispers something to the other two and straightens they turn their attention to the students.

“Yes, you saved my life,” Edelgard says, inclining her head gracefully. “You have my gratitude...Byleth, was it?”

Dimitri purses his lips. Whether this is a charade or some dream or… it seems Dimitri is meant to play the part of the professor. “It was nothing,” he lies.

She looks dubious at that, and Dimitri struggles to recall whether he’d said anything in his outburst. At the very least, Edelgard senses he hopes they’ll overlook it. “You are Jeralt, the Blade Breaker, are you not?” she asks. “Former captain of the Knights of Seiros?”

Jeralt’s eyes narrow as he shoots a glance at Dimitri. “As I said, I’m just a mercenary now. Byleth and I have work to do. ”

“Wait, Captain!” Alois yelps. “I insist you must come back to the monastery with us!”

“Tch.” Jeralt makes a face but his resistance is clearly superficial. “I guess this was inevitable.”

“And you will come too, won’t you, kid?” Alois asks.

“Indeed,” Edelgard puts in. Dimitri feels his expression strain to remain neutral; Goddess, he doesn’t know how the professor does it. How he did it? Dimitri shoves that thought away for later. “Your skill in combat is humbling. I must ask whether you’d consider lending your services to the Empire.”

“This is why people are scared to talk to you, Edelgard,” Claude says. “He doesn’t even know your name and you’re already trying to recruit him! Me, on the other hand, I’m Claude, and I intend to forge a lasting friendship with Byleth before I beg him for favors.”

The other Dimitri hesitates, letting his peers talk over him. Dimitri thinks for a second that maybe he’s caught, somehow, but then the other Dimitri smiles. “Please forgive these two. They have a tendency to forget themselves when it comes to competition,” he says. “My name is Dimitri. I, too, thought your sword form was inspiring.”

Dimitri nods. Their attention is unnerving - everything about them is, really - but he is curious to see if...if they really do bring him to Garreg Mach. “I’d be honored,” he says. “I’m interested in this monastery as well.”

“Excellent!” Alois says. Jeralt sighs again, casting his gaze skyward. “Captain, what’s wrong? You’re not about to run off again, are you?”

“No, unfortunately not,” Jeralt says. “Just… Well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll go tell my men the change of plans.”

He starts to walk off, Alois trailing behind him like a puppy. Even as they disappear into the trees to find the other mercenaries, Alois’s excited ramblings carry long after he’s left Dimitri alone with...the Trio.

They hardly need any more encouragement to take interest in Dimitri, or rather Byleth, but in the absence of the adults, they sidle up to him. “Where are you from, anyway?” Claude asks. “I feel like I should’ve heard of any mercenaries as strong as you.”

“I’m from Faerghus,” Dimitri says.

“Lame!” Claude complains.

“Oh, really?” the other Dimitri asks, perking up. “What part?”

“...Fhirdiad.”

“Oh, it’s a small world, isn’t it? Allow me to formally introduce myself again. My name is Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, crown prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. I’m quite pleased we have something in common.” It’s strange, Dimitri thinks, looking at a younger version of himself from the outside. He hadn’t known his face looked like that when he felt bashful. 

Claude and Edelgard share a narrow-eyed look. “Yeah, sounds nice, but it’s not like birthplace is that important,” Claude declares, stretching his hands behind his neck.

“I completely agree,” Edelgard says. “I’m sure Byleth has traveled all over Fódlan and has plenty of stories to share.”

The other Dimitri sends both of them a stern look, one that makes Dimitri smile in spite of himself. It’s cute. The thought curls in his stomach, warm and heavy. They’re so young, all of them. Edelgard. Claude. Even… Yeah, Dimitri was young back then too. Eager to learn and grow stronger, in any capacity. The past had been rife with tragedy, but the future had seemed. Open, somehow. He’d had no idea what kind of adult he’d grow into. What fate had in store for him. He bickered so openly with his...friends?

Had they been friends back then? They never got along, not exactly. But Dimitri hadn’t exactly gotten along with most of the Lions either; as the young leaders of the nations, he and Claude and Edelgard had been different from the other students from the start.

“I have spent a lot of time in the Alliance and Empire,” Dimitri admits, just to see the conspiratorial look enter Edelgard and Claude’s eyes at the same time.

He’s playing with fire, probably. Probably his father was right, and the best thing he can do now _ is _kill Edelgard and damn the consequences.

But...he did that once already, and it didn’t fill the darkness inside Dimitri’s heart. Nor, he thinks, was the world a brighter place for it. He doesn’t want another war.

Professor, Dimitri thinks. Byleth. What would you do? But Dimitri knows the answer without needing to hear it. Byleth had told him, after all. _ I can’t be the one to save you. _

Why has Dimitri been sent here? To follow his heart, as far as it will take him? For the sake of some secret goal? To live out history again as closely as the first time?

Perhaps there’s no reason at all. No reason Dimitri could fathom. And no matter how many questions he asks, Byleth isn’t here to guide him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i gotta figure out how to solve the dimitri/other dimitri problem lol


	3. The Anger

Garreg Mach looks exactly as Dimitri remembers it in his youth. He even recognizes some of the students and staff milling around, many of whom were lost in the fighting. Rhea is archbishop, of course. The students wear uniforms of red, blue, or yellow. Fódlan is divided.

He’s…pretty sure this isn’t a reenactment.

The other reason he suspects some kind of magic is afoot is that, well, he’s grown increasingly sure that this body is not his own. Dimitri hadn’t paid it much mind upon waking, but his hair now is quite a bit shorter than he normally keeps it. He thought, at first, that the professor had cut it, either to keep it out of the way or to disguise Dimitri, but, well. Dimitri thinks _ he’s _ a fair bit shorter than he used to be too.

“Thank you for your patience, Jeralt,” Seteth says at Rhea’s side. Dimitri looks up at him with narrowed eyes, certain that the last time they met, Seteth had been slightly shorter.

Back at the academy, Dimitri had been vaguely aware that Jeralt and Rhea were previously acquainted, though the knowledge affected him little so he paid it little mind. Apparently, though, if the tension in the room and Seteth’s imperious scrutiny is any indication, there’s a fair bit of animosity between the two.

“And you,” Rhea says, turning her attention on Dimitri. Jeralt frowns, but refrains from objecting. “I heard of your valiant efforts from Alois. What is your name?”

“My name is…” Dimitri trails off. He’s fairly sure he should answer “Byleth” here. Moderately sure. That’s the role he’s playing, and he thinks he recalls Jeralt calling him by name. But the inherent falseness of it stills Dimitri’s tongue long enough to appear discourteous, especially after Jeralt’s reticence.

“You should at least show the basic courtesy of telling us your name!” Seteth snaps. Rhea holds up her hand to pacify him.

“It is all right, Seteth.” Rhea smiles beatifically. Oh, Dimitri thinks. It’s something he’s noticed before but never really thought about. Rhea always looked at Byleth this way, almost...deferential. In a way she never looked at anyone else, even Seteth. “My dear, I am called Rhea. I am the archbishop of the Church of Seiros. In truth, I was only being polite. I already know your name. And a fine name it is.”

Dimitri inclines his head so that he doesn’t have to maintain eye contact. Whether she takes it as respect or bashfulness, Rhea moves on easily. “It sounded like our students are quite taken by your skill. We are all in your debt, for saving them.”

The corners of Jeralt’s mouth are turned down, though Dimitri is starting to get the feeling he always looks that way. The grunt he makes is distinctly displeased, however.

“Jeralt. You know it is I wish to say, do you not?” Rhea asks.

“Yeah…” Jeralt’s eyes dart to Dimitri. “And the answer is no. We’ve a job in Faerghus and can’t stay long.”

The placid expression on Rhea’s face vanishes, even though her features change very little. “Your departure was a great loss to the Knights of Seiros,” she says, sounding genuinely disappointed.

Dimitri looks between the two. He isn’t sure if this is how it went the first time. The professor’s father did join the knights, right? Plus, the professor joined the academy staff. He remembers the day clearly, introducing Byleth to the Lions.

“F-father,” Dimitri starts. He’s never actually heard the professor refer to Jeralt that way, but also doesn’t know what else to call him. “I do want to stay here. At the academy.”

“What?” Jeralt says. Rhea’s shoulders relax. “Kid, you…”

“Poor child,” Rhea says. “You’re so young, to live a mercenary’s life. I’d hoped you could bond with some children your age here.”

“You’re killing me, kid,” Jeralt laments under his breath. “Fine. You win, Rhea.”

“Your reticence stings,” Rhea says, inclining her head. “But I am still pleased to have you. I expect Alois will desire a word with you soon. Dear child, I have matters to attend to, but I hope you make yourself at home here.”

She doesn’t exactly pause for a response, but there is a clear expectation of compliance. Under Seteth’s fierce glare, Jeralt bows, and Dimitri follows in suit. Satisfied, Seteth follows Rhea out of the audience chamber.

“What a mess,” Jeralt sighs.

He looks agitated enough Dimitri feels bad. “I’m sorry.”

Jeralt looks at Dimitri. After a second, his eyes soften. “It’s all right. Our lifestyle is tough. I knew I was pushing you but… Well, at the very least it’ll be good for you to be around kids your age. Even if you’ll be…”

It probably shouldn’t take Dimitri by surprise, how little he knows about the professor’s life before the academy, but it does. He feels a sharp twist of guilt in his gut; he never asked, before, so the professor never told him, and now he doesn’t know when the next time they’ll see each other is. Never? If Dimitri is here going through the motions of being Byleth, where is Byleth? Not in the younger Dimitri’s head, surely. Running around behind the scenes, orchestrating whatever flourish of magic this is?

Or...nowhere?

“Kid?” Jeralt says, and Dimitri jerks back. “You sure you’re going to be O.K. teaching these brats?”

“Oh, yes,” Dimitri says, feeling a flush come on. “They seem, um, nice.”

Jeralt gives that the skeptical look it deserves. “Yeah, well. It’s not all fighting and games, you know. At these kinds of uppity schools, most of the classes are on...mathematics and logistics and stuff.”

Dimitri grins. “I’m aware.” The professor’s unusual upbringing had certainly made his classes more interesting, if not altogether educational. Truly, if any of Dimitri’s old teachers in Fhirdiad had caught wind of what the professor had taught Dimitri, they might have pulled him from the school, or at least demanded a resignation. Though literate, the professor had been unfamiliar with all of the academic texts in the library and any scholars whose works had dominated the political and military spheres for the past century. Any troubles with problem sets, Dimitri had ended up taking to Silvain; the professor knew little more than basic arithmetic.

Once, early in the year during an archery lecture, Ashe had asked the professor which of three angles was optimal to fire an arrow given a certain distance and wind conditions. The professor, staring blankly at the equation, merely said, “Whichever one hits.”

Jeralt stops and gawks. Too late, Dimitri notices what his face is doing and tries to clear his expression but the damage is done. “I’ve…” Jeralt falters, stunned. “I’ve never seen you smile like that before.”

“That can’t be true,” Dimitri says. The look on Jeralt’s face is indescribable really. He’d known cognizantly that Jeralt was the professor’s father, but the two were never that affectionate at the monastery. If not for the obvious age difference, they might strike onlookers as battle-tested mercenary pals. There was trust and intimacy there, but not...not anything like Jeralt’s expression as he stares at Dimitri, forlorn and gently reverent in its intensity.

“Maybe it won’t be so bad here,” Jeralt says slowly, turning away from Dimitri to descend the stairs.

…

There’s a small hand mirror in the drawer of the desk in the professor’s room – rather, the room that Dimitri has been assigned. This is one place in the monastery Dimitri has never been. The professor never spent much time here, flitting instead all over the monastery grounds, so there was never a need for students to knock on his door.

Dimitri _ is _ curious what he looks like now, but with everything that’s happened, seeing the professor’s face when he peers into the mirror isn’t…surprising. It’s something that’s crossed his mind before. He feared this, he thinks, so he’d tried not to believe it. But it follows that he can’t _ be _ Dimitri in this…world. Time. Nightmare.

The professor’s hair is blue again. Or, well, not again – but before? His eyes are blue. He’d forgotten the professor used to wear clothes like these; Dimitri hasn’t seen them in a long, long time. He grins into the mirror, flexing those muscles to remind himself he’s still himself; the real professor would never smile like this.

It doesn’t work. Seeing that expression on the professor’s face just feels grotesque. He wants to punch a wall. In the settling dust of his new room, Dimitri feels profoundly and acutely alone, in a way he hasn’t since the war, when he’d thought Dedue had been ripped from him.

_ I fear that you will be…terribly angry once I do. _Dimitri remembers the professor’s words. Remembers the slight quiver of his syllables, how fear caught on his tongue.

Dimitri _ is _ angry. That’s familiar too, how his fury and grief go hand-in-hand. He has thoughts, yes: the audacity of the professor, the madness, the, the… Why would he punish Dimitri like this? Hasn’t Dimitri suffered enough, doesn’t he deserve to live the rest of his life free of this war, of this cycle of loss and coping and inevitable loss again? When his ghosts have followed him for so long, when he’s tried so hard to…to…

He knows none of those thoughts are true. Dimitri wasn’t free, has never been. Never will be. And the professor doesn’t hate him; Dimitri knows that too. He’s relying on Dimitri. There must be a reason, just one Dimitri doesn’t know, that he’s put Dimitri here. Spite rears its head and whispers, “If only he’d told you when he could.”

Its voice sounds a lot like his stepmother’s.

Dimitri drops the mirror, ignoring the shatter when it hits the ground. He paces over shards of glass, trying to clear the air, trying to stop his thoughts from stagnating. He doesn’t know why the professor did…what he did. He doesn’t know many things. He doesn’t know if his father knew his wife betrayed him. He doesn’t know if Glenn died satisfied. He doesn’t know if his stepmother hated him all along. Dimitri survived not knowing all those things.

If the professor is dead… If the professor needed something from Dimitri, something that drove him to these means, Dimitri can survive not knowing that either.

(It doesn’t silence the whispers. There’s a small voice in the back of Dimitri’s mind, one that sounds like the child he still feels he is, one that’s always been awed by the professor’s strength and virtue. In his heart of hearts, Dimitri doesn’t want to think there’s anything the professor can’t do. If there was anything Dimitri needed, the professor would be there. Should have been there, in all his infinite wisdom and power.

Dimitri isn’t surprised the professor can rewind time. Transplant, what, souls? Shift worlds? There is no power under the weight of the sun Dimitri thinks would be beyond Byleth. So why…why use that power for this? Of all things, why him and why this?)

A commotion on his door resets Dimitri’s thoughts. It’s a sharp, rapid series of knocks, followed by – is that Professor Hanneman’s voice? Professor Manuela’s outraged shriek draws Dimitri out of his room quickly to find the two professors thoroughly distracted arguing at his doorstep.

“Um, excuse me?” Dimitri says.

“Look at that!” Hanneman says. “You’ve disturbed him.”

“You’re disturbing him, yammering on out here about nothing. I was introducing myself!” Manuela returns before whipping her attention to Dimitri with an arresting smile. “Oh, you’re quite young.”

“Forgive her,” Hanneman sighs. “I tried to stop her but she insisted on investigating when we heard there was a new professor here.”

“It’s perfectly reasonable to want to get to know coworkers!” Manuela said. “My name is Manuela. I’m a professor here as well… I hope we’ll be seeing a lot of each other from now on…”

“Honestly, woman!”

The tension in Dimitri’s shoulders drains away, listening to them bicker. As always, the racket is enough to wake the dead – or, in Dimitri’s case, keep their voices at bay – and it wouldn’t be a lie to say Dimitri’s missed this. Coming back here, he’d been largely fixated on the children (Ingrid and Sylvain, young again! The familiar faces of the Eagles, innocent and dynamic, before the war and death stole everything from them), but this, too, feels like coming home.

“It’s all right,” Dimitri cuts in. “I appreciate the thought, both of you.”

Hanneman clears his throat. “Very well then. I am Hanneman. I teach classes here and research Crests. You wouldn’t happen to have one, would you?”

“I…” Dimitri paused. He’s unused to hearing that question; as the king, such a thing was a given. But here, in this body, he’s not sure which crest he bears. Blaiddyd, or the professor’s Crest of Flames?

“Ohoh,” Hanneman says, “well then, you must visit me in my office at your soonest convenience.”

“Oh, boo, he’s not interested in listening to you ramble for hours on end, Hanneman.”

After Edelgard took Garreg Mach, Hanneman had, defying all logic, returned to the Empire, not as a noble or a scholar but as a soldier. Seteth had slain him, or so Dimitri heard from the professor. Manuela, who’d stayed with the Church, hadn’t cried when she heard, but… she’d certainly changed.

Dimitri isn’t sure whether it helps or hurts that he knows their futures.

“Enough, Manuela, you’re making him uncomfortable,” Hanneman eventually proclaims. He turns his attention back to Dimitri. “The three of us will each be heading one of the three houses here. I expect you’ve yet to be briefed - ”

“Actually, I know about them,” Dimitri cuts in. “I spoke to the house leaders on my way here.”

“Ah yes,” Hanneman clears his throat. “I do recall hearing something about that.”

Manuela narrows her eyes at Dimitri. “Tell me, kid, are you really as strong as they say? You must be, right? Training with the Blade Breaker all your life.”

“Er, well,” Dimitri says. “I think I’m decent with a sword, yeah.”

“We’ll see, won’t we!” she announces. “You’re so skinny though, not like your father at all. Although…”

“Manuela!” Hanneman interrupts. “We’ll let you go now. I suggest you acquaint yourself with the grounds, get to know the students.”

“A real troublesome bunch this year, but they’re good kids, I guess,” Manuela says, unfazed by her scolding. “Especially the house leaders! Good luck.”

“I got that impression too,” Dimitri says. Manuela laughs, drawing away first. Hanneman follows her, shaking his head.

“And don’t forget to drop by my office!” he calls over his shoulder. 

Then Dimitri is alone again, the vast stretch of Garreg Mach at his whimsy. He looks down the row of commoner dorms, taking in the same sight the professor must have seen every day for so long. Dimitri already knows the monastery intimately, spent so many formative years here. But standing there as a commoner, as a _ teacher _, a, a specter from the future…

He steps forward, places his foot against a tile Byleth has never stepped on, hasn’t had the chance yet.

The spectacle is new and old at once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ive been trying to rewrite a lot of the canon conversations so it isn’t just rereading the same text (after u’ve played it 4 times) but I get such joy out of using byleth’s canon lines which sound bonkers when byleth says them but make sense when dimitri does
> 
> eagles next chapter I promise!!


	4. Black Eagles

His feet take him directly to the Black Eagles room. Distantly Dimitri thinks he should…at least check in on the Lions, out of house loyalty and on account of them being all of his closest friends. Why he doesn’t, well.

Each of them is dearly precious to Dimitri, but they don’t know him. Not like this. To hear any of them ask for his name and look at him without recognition – Dimitri doesn’t want to think about that yet. Not until he has to.

The first person who spots him is Edelgard’s pretty brunette friend. Dimitri can’t recall her name, though he has a vague recollection the girl is a songstress like Professor Manuela. “Oh! You must be the one everyone’s talking about!” she calls out to Dimitri. “Sorry, ugh, what an annoying thing to hear. They’re only saying nice things, don’t worry.”

“That’s, ah, reassuring,” Dimitri says, sheepishly remembering how his own classmates had contributed to the fervor, what with Felix outright demanding a spar and all.

“My name’s Dorothea. I’m a student of the Black Eagles House now, but I was a performer at the Mittlefrank Opera Company before. Have you ever been?” Dorothea asks.

“I’m afraid not,” Dimitri says. He struggles to place the name of the opera; it’s in Enbarr, he thinks, but comes up short. Opera had been the farthest thing from his mind during the invasion, and even though afterward Dimitri had taken a long tour around Adrestian lands to show his commitment to the people there, he’s pretty sure he hasn’t heard anything of Dorothea or the Mittlefrank Opera Company.

He wonders, then, if during the war she’d…

“Ah, my manners,” Dimitri remembers. “My name is – Byleth.”

The shape of it still feels wrong on his tongue.

“Yes, yes, Edie mentioned you,” Dorothea says. “A real knight in shining armor! Or, well, more dark and brooding?” She considers the professor’s black platemail.

“Edie is…Edelgard?” Dimitri ventures.

“Mm. When those bandits attacked our camp, everyone was running around trying to fight back but there was so much pandemonium, I didn’t know where she’d gone.” She chuckles, though the subject is quite dark. This was one of the nights Dimitri remembers better than others; students had broken off into disorganized teams, trying to fend off their attackers with shoddy weapons and bravado alone. Some of the craftier kids ran to seek the protection of the staff. “Hubie was beside himself.”

Dorothea gestures behind her to the looming shadow of Hubert von Vestra. Him, Dimitri remembers, attached to Edelgard’s side as he was. Their attention doesn’t go unnoticed. Hubert, despite his preoccupation entertaining a ponytailed girl in his class, turns his head and stares right back at Dimitri.

“We’re all grateful for what you did, of course,” Dorothea says, although Hubert doesn’t _ look _grateful. But he doesn’t look leery either, or threatening, which has mostly been Dimitri’s experience with Hubert in the past. Mostly Hubert just looks vigilant; perhaps his sinister reputation can be attributed to the way his face looks. Dedue certainly got his fair share of judgment on that front.

“I only did what anyone would do,” Dimitri says when Dorothea pauses awaiting a response. “I’m sure it must have been frightening for you.”

“It is the Officers Academy, I suppose,” Dorothea sighs. “It’s what I signed up for, however scary.”

Dimitri is only half paying attention. Hubert has disengaged from his classmate and approaches, drawing the interest of the other students in the class. The girl he was talking to - she has a strange marking on her face; the princess of Brigid, Dimitri’s brain supplies, whose death in Enbarr had caused no small trouble with Fódlan’s hold on Brigid afterwards - notices Dimitri with a jolt. Ferdinand von Aegir sights Hubert’s movement too, while the small, short-haired girl behind him takes immediate cover.

But Edelgard isn’t in the classroom. Where is she?

“You must be the mercenary who came to the aid of Her Highness,” Hubert says when he reaches the doorway. He’s...tall. Dimitri doesn’t remember that. “You have my deepest thanks. My name is Hubert.”

“I’m Byleth,” says Dimitri.

“And I am Ferdinand von Aegir!” Ferdinand trots up behind Hubert with a broad grin. “And who is this?”

Hubert’s eyebrow twitches a little, almost imperceptible had his lips not thinned at the same time. “It’s quite rude to barge in on other people’s conversations.”

“Is that a new student?” The next student drawn by the commotion is one Dimitri doesn’t recognize at all. His hair is shock of aqua blue; the top of his head is just shy of Hubert’s shoulder. “Hi! The name’s Caspar - oh wait, you’re the one who saved Edelgard, yeah?”

“Ah, I mean,” Dimitri stammers.

Dorothea laughs. “Let him breathe, guys. He’ll never remember your names if you barrage him like that.”

“No, no, I think I got everyone,” Dimitri says. “It’s Dorothea, Hubert, Ferdinand, Caspar. And I’m Byleth.”

“I am called Petra,” the Brigid girl says, approaching the group. “I am pleased to be meeting you.”

“And this is Linhardt. Linhardt?” Caspar looks around for his friend, a long-haired fellow who either has managed to sleep through the introductions or is pointedly ignoring them.

“What brings you to the Black Eagles classroom, Byleth?” Hubert says.

Dimitri senses he shouldn’t ask for Edelgard here. It would be weird to specify her when they’d only “met” once, wouldn’t it? “I’m just looking around,” he lies. “I’ve heard I’m going to be a professor here?”

“Oh, to replace the one who ran off?” Caspar returns to the group, evidently deciding against dragging his friend over.

“It makes sense to replace a coward frightened off by danger with the man who conquered it,” Ferdinand says. He tilts his head as he scrutinizes Dimitri. “Hm, though you are rather young to teach us. You cannot be much older than us…”

“I’m older than I look...probably,” Dimitri says. Actually he isn’t sure how old Byleth is - was? Dimitri himself is twenty-nine, or he was a couple days ago. But the body he’s in isn’t at all his, so... 

“Probably?” Dorothea giggles.

“Hm.” Hubert narrows his eyes. “Were you told which house you’ll be teaching?”

“No, they just told me to get to know everyone,” Dimitri says.

With a curt nod, Hubert says, “Then I suppose you should get to know everyone. Bernadetta.”

One of the pillars squeaks.

“Come out and meet the new professor.”

“No! I don’t want to die!” Bernadetta full-on shrieks. Dimitri winces, but no one else seems particularly jarred by it.

“There is no danger, Bernadetta. Allow me to go first!” Ferdinand says, running his fingers through the fringe of his bangs. “I am Ferdinand von Aegir, eldest son of the Aegir family in the Empire.”

“We’ve already introduced ourselves, Ferdie,” Dorothea says.

“Linhardt! Linhardt, come meet the professor!” Caspar calls. Linhardt, who does look a little familiar though Dimitri has no recollection of speaking to the boy at the academy, cracks open his eyes to turn an unimpressed stare at his friend.

“You can’t lie to me. I heard… I heard he killed like a hundred bandits without even trying!” Bernadetta cries.

“There weren’t even that many bandits that night,” Hubert says patiently.

Finally, a girl peeks out from behind the pillar, rapidly scanning the group until her eyes land on Dimitri. She has a frazzled mop of purple hair and is visibly shaking. He gives a small wave. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Bernadetta,” Dimitri says. “Linhardt.”

“There, I’ve met him,” Linhardt says with a yawn, still standing in the same spot.

“Sorry about him, professor,” Caspar says. “Is what Bernadetta says true? You’re that strong?”

“Er. Yes? No?” Dimitri changes his mind; both he and Byleth have easily killed over a hundred men in one night before, but the admission makes Bernadetta disappear again.

“The answer is being both yes and no?” Petra furrows her brow in confusion.

“The answer is no,” Dimitri says firmly. “I’ve killed an appropriate level of enemies for a mercenary.”

“You’ve caught my interest!” Caspar pumps his fist in the air as he yells; it doesn’t stir his friend Linhardt at all, who appears to have dozed off on his feet again. “Come teach the Black Eagles, professor! I wanna see what you’re made of in a fight.”

“Caspar, it is hardly appropriate to speak to a professor that way!” Ferdinand reprimands.

“This must be different from the company you’re used to keeping, Professor,” Hubert says.

“Not that much different,” Dimitri says. The Eagles are louder, maybe, than the Lions, but Dimitri can easily imagine Ingrid and Sylvain squabbling just as gracelessly. It seems kids are the same the world over.

“We won’t keep you, if you’d like to investigate the other houses,” Hubert says.

“Wait.” Dimitri surprises himself when he calls out. “Um. Do you know where Edelgard is? I’m, um, supposed to talk with the house leaders?”

He holds his breath as Hubert pauses, but he ends up buying the lie. “Lady Edelgard should be in that building,” he says, pointing over Dimitri’s shoulder to the hall across the courtyard.

“Can you see through walls or do you just always know where Edie is, Hubie?” Dorothea asks, a teasing lilt to her voice.

“As Lady Edelgard’s humble servant, it is my duty to know where she is and what she requires at all times,” Hubert responds. It warms Dimitri’s heart just a little, with how it reminds him of Dedue. He can’t help glancing down the corridor to the Lions room, where Dedue must be now, young and unscarred.

Dimitri turns away before any of the Eagles can catch how his smile grows strained. “It was a pleasure meeting you all. I look forward to the rest of the year,” he says.

Dimitri’s Dedue isn’t here; unless the professor has rigged some kind of...reverse time-travel mechanism (and Dimitri won’t pretend to have any idea how this all works), Dimitri will never see his Dedue again. All he has here is a lingering attachment to a dead girl who is miraculously, miraculously alive now. Dimitri doesn’t know if that’s enough, if it’s worth it.

But she’s waiting for him anyway.

...

“Professor,” Edelgard says when Dimitri walks up. He’s a little taken aback since he hasn’t introduced himself as such yet.

“...Edelgard,” Dimitri replies.

“I must say I’m disappointed you’ve decided to teach here. I was hoping you’d lend your sword to the Empire. I suppose having you teach the Black Eagles House would be the next best thing,” she says.

Dimitri had largely avoided Edelgard in school. She never sought him out; she had never really seen him at all, he didn’t think. She looks different from how she looked in their childhood. Of course, she acted completely different too.

She kept the knife though. Dimitri had always wondered what had changed inside her...and what hadn’t.

“I don’t have my assignment yet, but I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” Dimitri says.

Edelgard smiles at him. Dimitri manages to keep breathing. “I haven’t properly introduced myself. My name is Edelgard von Hresvelg. I am the princess and heir apparent to the Adrestian Empire. Have you met Hubert and the others?”

“I have,” Dimitri says. “They’re, uh, quite friendly.”

“Yes, that’s one way to describe them,” Edelgard says. “I’m glad they haven’t put you off the Black Eagles. You must be curious about them though.”

Dimitri feels his face warm. “Not really. I’m more curious about you.”

“Oh. Me?” Edelgard blinks. “I have been described as distant, I suppose. One day I am to be Adrestia’s emperor, so the pressures on me are quite different from the others.”

“I can imagine,” Dimitri says, though he can’t. Not in the same way, really. “You… Forgive my impertinence, but you seem to be the type to keep all of your secrets locked deep within you. Without letting anyone in.”

“I’m sorry you’ve gotten that impression,” Edelgard says demurely. Her eyes are anything but, staring straight at Dimitri. “Especially when you, also, seem to have your share of secrets.”

“I’ll trade you,” Dimitri says, raising his eyebrow.

“I’m afraid state secrets probably outweigh those of a mercenary, though I can’t say I’m not intrigued.”

Dimitri searches her face, seeking any hint of weakness. Wistfulness? Any indication that she might think on her ambitions and regret, even a little. But as always, Edelgard’s face is a polite mask, her emotions caged.

Though disappointed, Dimitri isn’t surprised. It isn’t going to be easy. “I’m thinking I’ll probably request to teach the Eagles,” he says.

“Oh?” Edelgard sounds pleased enough Dimitri could convince himself she feels it earnestly. “May I ask what convinced you? You seemed quite taken with Dimitri.”

“Is that jealousy?” Dimitri asks. Edelgard’s cheeks go pink, which sends a thrill through Dimitri. He chuckles. “No, I don’t… I don’t think I could teach him, no. He’s…”

If it wasn’t Edelgard the Lions were pitted against, Dimitri thinks he could do it, actually. It could be fulfilling too, guiding a young him into adulthood - no one knows what Dimitri went through better than Dimitri, after all. It’s just that Dimitri went through it without that guidance. And came out the other end like this.

“He has friends. And family,” Dimitri decides on. “I just feared you were lonely.”

Edelgard’s lips thin. It’s a strange thing to say to her as a stranger, Dimitri thinks belatedly. “That is quite presumptuous, yes,” she says.

Dimitri bows his head. “I apologize. That was rude.”

“No, there’s no need,” Edelgard says. She glances quickly askance. “I… I am thankful for your honesty and would rather hear your true thoughts than platitudes. I was not aware I came off that way.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply - I, er,” Dimitri stammers. Definitely other students wouldn’t described Edelgard as “lonely” but Dimitri can’t exactly disclose his true feelings. This...miniature Edelgard lowers his guard too much. “You come off as strong-willed and independent. I just thought, um… You’re alone here while all the other students are in your classroom. Even Hubert.”

“You’re saying I lack friends,” Edelgard says.

“Er,” says Dimitri.

“Thank you for your input, professor. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to spend time with other students while I’m at the academy.”

Dimitri falls silent, still unsure if he’s overstepped. It seems to be happening whenever he opens his mouth around Edelgard, so it might be better not to speak. It’s hard to help, though. With her in front of him like this, and the heavy knowledge of what is to come, Dimitri knows he only has so much time to get Edelgard to understand.

There’s still a year left, he tells himself. He can’t recall the exact month, but there still is time. A year to prevent a war Edelgard has been preparing for who-knows-how-long.

He still has the memory of Edelgard’s fallen body, in front of the Adrestian throne. Only a year to prevent six years of suffering. Impossible, maybe. But Dimitri already travelled back in time. He’s in a body that isn’t his own. Edelgard looks at him not with pity or dismissal, but with respectful consideration.

Compared to those things, stopping this war isn’t _ that _impossible...is it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> exposition...over! Onwards and upwards from here, folks. My character bias is probably showing here so if u have any requests on charas you want to see more, feel free to suggest
> 
> Also im housemenidy on tumblr; drop by and hmu with ur unpopular fe3h opinions bc this fic is probably gonna be mostly those


	5. Professor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra long chapter bc there was not a good cutoff point, so enjoy 2 chapters in 1!

During Dimitri’s first day of classes, the professor had convened the Lions in the training hall instead of the classroom. He’d handed out wooden swords – ignoring Felix’s scoff – and when Ingrid raised her hand to tell him that most of them had experience with real weapons, he’d simply thanked her for the knowledge and assigned them ten thousand practice reps. Then he stood at the mouth of the hall, watching over them with that blank-faced, owl-eyed stare as they complied, some more readily than others.

The reps took them until lunch. Dimitri finished, as did Ingrid, Felix, and Dedue. Ashe struggled valiantly the entire time, and by noon his fingers could no longer maintain their grip around the sword’s hilt, which would slide out of his grip every time he tried to swing it. Sylvain put up a front of performing the reps but his attention and form slipped quickly. If the professor noticed, he didn’t comment on it. Annette and Mercedes put forth their best effort but lacked the necessary endurance. Then the professor assigned them three laps around the monastery grounds before they were allowed to break for food.

In the afternoon, they had theology classes, wherein all of them were assigned extra homework for unreadable penmanship.

The second day, when the professor passed out wooden swords again, Felix threw his on the ground and demanded a real lesson. So the professor took him to one of the sparring grounds and, with the rest of the Lions watching, thoroughly trounced him. Then he assigned Felix twenty thousand practice reps.

Felix missed his afternoon classes that day.

At the time, Dimitri would never have voiced any objections, but there was a wild exoticism to the professor’s lessons. The students spoke of it behind the professor’s back. Was this how mercenaries were taught, brawn over theory or tactics or form? Did they start with wooden swords, some wondered, because they trained in combat as young children? Did the professor prefer the training grounds over the classroom because he wasn’t raised on books? How savage, and new, and interesting.

It wasn’t until the war that Dimitri understood. The monthly missions may have been real battles, but they were still controlled environments where the students were supervised. Where Dimitri knew the professor was at his back, and he had someone to rely on. And the professor eventually started correcting their sloppy form, and he did start teaching more formal lessons once each of the Lions could do their ten thousand reps and three laps without the muscle fatigue interrupting the rest of their day. 

But in war, Dimitri remembered those early classes. They couldn’t talk to their classmates without losing track of where they were in their reps and having to start again, so for several straight hours all they thought about was numbers ticking upward. Their bodies moved in tandem, automatically, falling into a familiar form as naturally as a river follows its course. Their palms blistered and scabbed over and then calloused, until holding the weight and the grip of the sword was no longer painful, just an extension of their bodies.

That, Dimitri thought, was war. Inelegant and brusque. Soldiers marched long hours without eating; even when they tired, their steps couldn’t falter without dragging the rest of the group down. In the midst of battle, they had to swing their swords no matter how weary or hungry they were, and a clumsy strike was just as good as any, so long as it drew blood.

That was the world the professor came from. That was the savagery that he saw in their futures, that he prayed would save them.

Dimitri understands, but he doesn’t agree. From the start, the professor was different from all of them. Dimitri was raised to rule. No matter how long his endurance lasted - whether Dimitri trained until he could fight ceaselessly a whole day, a whole week, a whole month - as a warrior he would never achieve the devastation he wielded with legions at his command. Though he could fight in the thick of it, putting his life on the line to protect the allies at his back, Dimitri could protect so much more sitting on his throne, hearing relief requests and intervening in territory disputes. In the end he uses what he learned from his tutors in Fhirdiad just as much as what he’d learned from Byleth.

And now that he has a class of his own…he’s not sure what to do. The professor’s lessons had been ruthless, but they had, at least, worked. The Lions turned out fine – or, at least, alive. And Dimitri was supposed to be Byleth here.

The other half of him, though, feels that chasing after the professor’s footsteps is a fool’s errand. Dimitri has spent years following the voices of people no longer with him and vowed no longer.

In the end, he convenes class in the training hall. The students congregate in front of the straw dummies, but they stop talking when he walks in, fixing their eyes on Dimitri as he wheels a sword cart to the front.

“I’m glad to see everyone made it here safely,” he says, looking around. “I think I remember everyone’s names.” Bernadetta is hunched over with nowhere to hide; she visibly contemplates hiding behind one of her classmates but that would mean actually approaching them, which she makes no movements to do. Caspar and his friend Linhardt stand together, for a certain value of “stand.” Linhardt is almost fully resting his weight against Caspar’s back, his arms folded across his chest and his chin tucked against his collarbone as he dozes.

Hubert stands half a step behind Edelgard, at her shoulder, just as a king’s chancellor should. He’s well-trained, Dimitri thinks. Edelgard stands proudly near the front, a few feet away from Ferdinand, who towers over her but stands alone.

Dorothea, in the back, waves at Dimitri. He inclines his head to acknowledge her but addresses the group as a whole.

“How many of you have swung a sword before?” he asks.

Most of the Eagles raise their hands; among those who don’t are Bernadetta and Linhardt, though the latter still appears to be asleep despite Caspar jostling him.

“We’ll be starting there, though we will also cover lances, axes, archery, brawling, and magic, so I wouldn’t worry if you have trouble today. The goal is to master weapons as possible by the end of the year. You probably won’t hear this from many professors, but in battle it isn’t enough to just be the best at one thing. Whatever you have at your disposal, you need to know how to use it. Whether you have a sword or stick, I’ll be teaching you how to defend yourself. Question?” Dimitri looks at Ferdinand.

“Professor, I will be happy to demonstrate any sword forms for the class,” Ferdinand says.

It’s a different kind of class interruption than Dimitri is used to. “Thank you, Ferdinand. I’ll keep that in mind. For now, everyone, choose a sword. Later on, all of you will be outfitted with swords that are properly tailored to your bodies, but for lessons, choosing one that feels comfortable in your hand will be sufficient.”

This time Ferdinand speaks without prompting. “Professor, some of us already have commissioned swords.”

“Then you’ll be fortunate to receive a second one,” Dimitri tells him. “The academy tuition covers weapons and armor for your time here. You’d be remiss not to take advantage of it. Come.”

Most of the Eagles are nobles and pick their swords quickly. Dimitri observes the group for stragglers. Edelgard, Hubert, Ferdinand, and Petra all inspect their swords expertly, gauging their weights and reach until they’re satisfied. Dimitri suspects that Caspar and Linhardt have also been taken to a sword fitting before, but Caspar is drawn to one of the heavier, shinier swords and Linhardt just accepts one that Caspar thrusts into his hands. Dorothea doesn’t shy from the weapons, but she doesn’t scrutinize her sword as intently as the nobles, instead selecting a lighter blade with an ornate, if dulled, pommel.

Bernadetta just eyes the swords suspiciously.

“Here, try this one out,” Dimitri offers, withdrawing from the selection an older sword. It’s still sharp – all of them are newly sharpened – but the coating on the hilt has been worn away to a comfortable grip, and the blade is slender and short.

“Th-thanks,” Bernadetta squeaks, snatching the sword out of Dimitri’s hands. She scurries away without giving it any consideration at all.

“Today,” Dimitri begins, “I just want to get an idea of where everyone is. There is no need to be embarrassed if you don’t have as much experience as your peers, but if you’re concerned, you can approach me privately. Now, Ferdinand and…Caspar, please join me up here.”

Ferdinand beams at his classmates from the front of the room. While Caspar is more surprised to hear his name, he quickly obeys, which attracts Linhardt’s notice finally. “Are we gonna spar, professor?” Caspar chirps.

“Yes,” says Dimitri.

There’s some shuffling amongst the class as the students straighten, over which Ferdinand’s voice carries easily. “Well now, Caspar, may the best man win.”

“W-we’re sparring with real swords?” Bernadetta cries, sounding faint.

“Yes, and for each of the spars, I’d like the class to observe,” Dimitri says. “You’ll learn a lot identifying common mistakes your peers make too. These will be one-on-one fights, and don’t worry too much. I’ll be supervising to make sure no one goes too far. Whoever draws first blood wins. No targeting above the shoulders, please.”

The rules draws additional commotion from the Eagles, including one impressive opaque stare from Edelgard and a sneer from Hubert. Dorothea goes pale, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. Linhardt also abruptly goes rigid, giving Dimitri more of his attention than ever before.

First blood. Dimitri doesn’t think any of his professors ever called for first blood. The early spars were all with wooden weapons; later in the year, they’d upgraded to blunted iron ones. First blood was a rule for boys’ games and drunk competition, foolhardy students who bet they could clobber each other afterschool, where the loser coughed up his wallet or did the winner’s chores.

But Caspar eyes Ferdinand with interest, a cocky grin burgeoning on his face. “Sweet. Sounds fun.”

“Hold, Caspar, I have no intention of losing,” Ferdinand says.

“You can’t beat me, Ferdinand,” Caspar says.

Dimitri gestures for the class to give them space. He stands closer to the pair, ready to intervene though he doesn’t anticipate the need to. It is still the first class, after all; any oversteps today will probably be out of recklessness than actual hostility. Ferdinand positions his body so his right shoulder faces Caspar, with his sword extended between them, his torso angled perpendicular to minimize his body as a target. It’s a fencer’s stance, which makes sense; as a noble, Ferdinand would naturally have learned fencing and jousting for sport, maybe even archery.

Caspar, on the other hand, holds his sword with both hands. His feet are spread wide, one slightly angled behind the other. He makes the first lunge too, slashing his sword in a wide arc that is, honestly, more aggressive than Dimitri expects. If it connected, it might have actually sent Ferdinand to the healer, but it’s the first move and Ferdinand is expecting it. He flicks his sword, rapping it harshly against the flat of Caspar’s to knock it off course, then nicks Caspar in the side with his riposte.

“Ouch!” Caspar yelps.

“Point to Ferdinand,” Dimitri acknowledges. “Caspar, well done. What could you have done better?”

“Ummm.” Pressing his palm against his side, where Ferdinand’s sword had sliced easily through the fabric of his school uniform, Caspar scrunches up his face. “Uh, it was over really quickly… I should have expected his attack and dodged?”

“That might have been difficult,” Dimitri says. “Your swing had quite a bit of momentum, so it likely wasn’t possible to recover from a parry that quickly.”

Caspar scratches his head sheepishly.

“A swing that wide is also very easy to read,” Ferdinand puts in.

“It is important to keep in mind that your body can telegraph your next moves, if your opponent knows what to look for,” Dimitri says. “That’s something you’ll learn in more advanced lessons. Thank you, Ferdinand. Please stay up here.”

About to return to the class in validation, Ferdinand looks back at Dimitri, surprised. “You would like me to spar once more?”

“Who here,” Dimitri says, “thinks they can beat Ferdinand?”

A heavy silence falls over the students, a combination of people not wanting to lose in front of their classmates and general reticence to volunteer so early. After a few seconds, Petra steps forward. “I am happy to be having a challenge,” she says, clipping her syllables.

“Hm! Very well,” says Ferdinand, returning to his spot. “I am also grateful for the opportunity.”

They size each other up. As Ferdinand falls back into his fencing form, Petra takes a stance Dimitri doesn’t recognize. Her hips are slightly angled, but her feet aren’t wide enough to give her a sturdy stance. She has her sword in one hand, but her free arm is bent in front her, fingers splayed – for balance, maybe, or perhaps she’s practiced in dual wielding.

Like before, Ferdinand waits for Petra to make the first move, but Petra anticipates his parry and doesn’t give him time to counterattack, jabbing her sword in quick succession at his chest to force Ferdinand back. At the same time as she advances, she circles around him, which directs Ferdinand’s attention to adjusting his footwork.

Then she darts in; the match is over quickly. Petra blocks his answering sword strike with her own, ducking under the blades and tagging Ferdinand on the upper thigh as she scoots out.

“Point to Petra,” Dimitri says.

“Wow, Petra, that was incredible!” Dorothea calls from where she’d made her way to the front of the group.

“It is the way the people of Brigid fight,” Petra says. She bows to Ferdinand. “I have gratitude for allowing me to learn the way the people of Fódlan fight.”

“No, it seems I am the one with more to learn. At least, for now,” Ferdinand says. “Well fought, Petra.”

“Now who wants to challenge Petra?” Dimitri asks.

It goes like that for a bit. Petra manages to defeat a few more people with sheer speed, notably piercing a guy through the palm on accident and sending him to Manuela’s office. The kids are a bit shaken after that, and Dimitri has to volunteer the next person to go up. He chooses Hubert.

Hubert walks up to Petra slowly, not nervous but also clearly not in the mood for competition. Edelgard looks interested in the match-up though, and she’s given enough implicit approval that Hubert doesn’t bother resisting. He points his sword at Petra. The stance he falls into is a mix of a couple things: fencing, a few southern sword styles, and a healthy dose of bad form. Swordplay, Dimitri guesses, isn’t something Hubert is particularly keen on, though he puts up a good front against Petra.

Petra darts in, and Hubert fends her off with a broad, horizontal slash. For someone so clearly apathetic to the competition, he isn’t terrible. Still shaken from the last match, Petra hesitates in her follow-up, and Hubert closes the distance between them in a single stride. 

The reach of his sword is longer than hers. Petra narrows her eyes as she hops back Then she feints to her right, making Hubert overextend his retaliation. Straightening – a mistake, Dimitri thinks – Petra goes for the win, an innocent graze against the outside of Hubert’s shoulder. Her tip of her blade cuts through his sleeve, makes contact, and Hubert’s entire arm jolts inward.

His sword is deep into the flesh under Petra’s forearm before Dimitri can call the match. Petra makes a surprised squeak that gets lost in the gasps from the class. Her brow furrows more in surprise than anything else; the pain hasn’t registered yet. Hubert’s eyes are wide too. He looks more startled than she does. Some blood dribbles off the edge of his sword and speckles the ground.

“Easy, Hubert,” Dimitri coaxes, approaching the pair. “Don’t take it out yet.” Putting his hand on Hubert’s shoulder to steady the sword, Dimitri pries the hilt out of his grip, taking care not to jostle Petra’s wound in the transition.

“That wasn’t my intention,” Hubert starts.

“I know,” Dimitri says. “These things happen. It’s a risk you take when you pick up a real weapon.”

Hubert nods stiffly. His shoulders even out. He is, Dimitri notes, less shaken than the Lions had been the first time there had been an _ incident _ during class. Sylvain had gotten distracted by some girls and missed the professor’s order to clear the field. Then one of Ashe’s arrows had flown wide, hitting him in the meat of his calf. It had been a good deal after the first month, their first kills, but drawing a friend’s blood seemed like crossing new territory. The professor had cast a preliminary heal before escorting Sylvain to the infirmary. They’d thought they’d get a long lecture during the next class, but the professor hadn’t mentioned it until Ashe broke down in tears when the professor asked why he didn’t want to shoot in class anymore.

But Hubert isn’t like Ashe, not even a little. He apologizes to Petra but there’s no horror there. He’s someone who’s drawn blood before, Dimitri’s sure. Or he’s long prepared that he would have to. Dimitri doesn’t remember how long Edelgard and Hubert had planned their war, but it must have taken years. Dimitri knows from experience how intricate and broken the empire’s political system is, lines of power horribly entangled during the Insurrection. Possibly, Hubert already thinks of himself as the Minister of the Imperial Household, a pawn of the emperor.

He stares a little too long at the bloody sword though. This untempered version of Hubert, who startles in the middle of a duel and loses control of his sword – he’s not been forged in war yet, and he’s not as hardened as he thinks.

“Professor,” Petra says faintly.

“You’re all right,” Dimitri says, turning back to her. He lacks even the professor’s burgeoning proficiency with healing magic. “You haven’t lost much blood. Can you walk with me to the infirmary?”

Trembling, Petra nods. “It hurts,” she whispers. Her sword arm dangles at her side; she’s dropped her sword. Dimitri uses the sole of his boot to push it aside.

She’s a child, Dimitri reminds himself. He wraps one arm around her back to keep her upright, his other hand keeping Hubert’s sword level. It’s not a dangerous wound. During war, if not for the fact it keeps her from lifting her sword arm, it might be considered a scratch. “It’s a clean cut,” he reassures her. “Not too deep. Professor Manuela will fix you up in a couple of seconds.”

Petra valiantly takes a step forward, and Dimitri keeps pace with her, even though the progress is slow. He turns his head to find the Eagles murmuring amongst each other, but their eyes snap to attention immediately.

“One lap around the monastery,” he calls to them. “This shouldn’t take long.”

Dimitri guides Petra out of the training hall. Even after they turn the corner, he feels the Eagles eyes on him for a good while.

…

Manuela scolds him uneasily. She doesn’t approve of first blood, nor his decision to have students spar with real swords their first class, before Dimitri has taught them anything of safety. Dimitri bears it out. She seems to want to use harsher words but hesitates to insult him. Though Dimitri knows her, has an idea of her pain, it’s clear Professor Manuela views him as a stranger. 

“Allow me to supervise,” she suggests. “It’s safer if I’m on the grounds with them.”

“Swords aren’t safe,” Dimitri says, turning away from her. “This is the best way to prepare them.”

She doesn’t approve, but she has no power over him anymore. Petra looks between them as she rolls her newly healed shoulder, flexing the muscles there to keep them limber. “Professor?”

“You did well, Petra. Your form is good. Different. Though next time, don’t let down your guard because you think you’ve won. A cornered enemy is the most dangerous kind.”

She mutters his words under her breath, though obediently she doesn’t pause in her arm exercises. “I must not be letting my guard down, even in training,” she repeats.

“She has the rest of the day off,” Dimitri tells Manuela. To Petra, he says, “Stay here until Professor Manuela releases you.”

The Eagles are finished with their lap and waiting for him when Dimitri returns to the training hall. Some of them are still red-faced and harried; others, Dimitri suspects, didn’t bother running at all. He stares right at Linhardt – awake, but evidently not enough to notice. No matter. They’d learn the importance of training their stamina soon.

“Professor, how is Petra?” Hubert asks.

Dimitri blinks, a little surprised he’s spoken up but not entirely caught off-guard. Hubert is rather formal after all. “Her arm is fine. She’s resting but she shouldn’t have any issues.”

“I am glad to hear that,” he says.

“Man, it’s so wild that happened during our first class, huh?” Caspar exclaims. Hubert casts him a glance without outright agreement.

“Surely the professor has seen worse,” Ferdinand says. “He is prepared to step in if anyone gets disorderly.”

“Th-that wasn’t worth stepping in for?” squeaks Bernadetta. She, Dimitri thinks, did do the lap, if her flush and disheveled hair is any indication.

“I assure you, none of you are in danger here,” Dimitri says over them. That’s not what he wants to impart on them, that they aren’t safe with him. He looks around. All of the students have fallen silent and are looking back at him with an intensity he didn’t receive even as king. Probably this is how Dimitri looked at the professor too. Byleth had such an…intimate power over people. “Hubert.”

“Professor?”

“Come up here.” Hubert follows Dimitri to the scuffle in the dirt marked by Petra’s blood. Dimitri hands him back his sword. Petra’s is no longer on the ground; someone had put it back in the cart. “Petra drew first blood but I’ve excused her, so you’ll have to fight again. Who thinks they can beat Hubert?”

Some of the Eagles actually take physical steps back. “We’re continuing?” Dorothea asks.

“Class isn’t over,” Dimitri responds. He gets silence in response, though the brunt of the skepticism is directed towards Hubert, who endures it stalwartly. Both Dorothea and Bernadetta avert their gaze. Even Caspar, who had spent the last couple of matches ribbing Linhardt to volunteer, only crosses his arms in concern. No one wants to be the next to get stabbed. Of the group, only Edelgard looks unperturbed. Dimitri had sparred with Dedue often, in their training. He wonders if Edelgard spars with Hubert.

“Professor, I can duel Hubert,” Ferdinand volunteers.

“That’s all right, Ferdinand,” Dimitri says. “I already have a good idea of your skill level.”

While Ferdinand puzzles if that was backhanded or not, Dimitri makes eye contact with Edelgard. He tilts his head towards Hubert.

She makes him wait for a couple seconds before acquiescing. “Very well, professor.”

It gets a reaction from Hubert, who furrows his brow, vexed at last. “Lady Edelgard –” 

“It is merely practice, Hubert,” Edelgard interrupts him. Hubert sends Dimitri a piercing stare, but even he is unwilling to disobey Edelgard. He falls back into his stance, feet placed wider than before. His posture is worse too; Dimitri makes a note to fix it before Hubert can make it a bad habit.

Edelgard’s form, meanwhile, is difficult to critique. She’s not a showman like Ferdinand, primed to cross swords for sport. Her feet are spread, knees locked over them for strength. While she seems to find the positioning uncomfortable, that is merely a symptom of inexperience. She holds her sword in two hands. It clicks in the back of Dimitri’s head that it’s a stance he recognizes, the same one she uses for her axe.

Hubert knows it too, for he gazes at her sword with grim wariness. Any semblance of actual fight has left him; he does not intend to draw Edelgard’s blood, and he isn’t eager to face down her sword either.

“Pay attention, Hubert,” Dimitri reminds him. It draws a deep frown to Hubert’s face but he lifts his chin and makes eye contact with Edelgard.

He shifts, bringing his sword a little higher, and then Edelgard raises hers over her head and smashes Hubert’s sword out of his hand. Dimitri winces as the blades splinter where their edges collided; Edelgard’s sword fares slightly better, maintaining its shape, where Hubert’s sword clatters to the ground in two pieces.

She turns to Dimitri when he doesn’t call the match. “Is that sufficient?”

“First blood,” he says.

“Hm.” Edelgard walks up to Hubert. With a controlled flick of her wrist, she draws the tip of her blade across Hubert’s cheek, a thin line of blood welling up to mark the movement. Hubert, to his credit, doesn’t flinch at all. He maintains eye contact with Dimitri the whole time.

It is not satisfying at all to watch. But it needs to be done. Dimitri steels his nerve. “Point to Edelgard. Go ahead and choose another sword.” He doubts her current one would survive much more abuse after a direct collision like that. “Who wants to go next?”

He isn’t surprised there are no other takers. It’s an impressive display of strength from Edelgard, though Dimitri is no stranger to breaking swords. He surveys the group, zeroing in on the kids avoiding his eyes.

“Bernadetta?” he asks.

“No way!” she shouts, squeezing her eyes closed. “I’m not going up there… Never ever.”

Dimitri doesn’t want to establish a precedent where the students don’t listen to him, especially in regards to their own combat training, but…he’s pushed them pretty far this session. “Dorothea?”

“Hah… Maybe Edie can just cut me and we’ll say it’s a win for her?” Dorothea suggests.

“Professor, please allow me to duel Edelgard!” Ferdinand says.

Sighing Dimitri decides it may be time to just call it a day. Edelgard has stuck her new sword into the dirt as she evaluates each of her housemates as an opponent. But in the end, no one else steps up to the challenge. “Fine,” Dimitri says. Ferdinand perks up, but then Dimitri draws the professor’s sword and approaches Edelgard himself. She draws herself to attention. Hubert also grows noticeably frosty. “I will be your opponent then.”

“Oh!” Dorothea makes a surprised noise that underlines each of the Eagles turning their undivided attention to Dimitri and Edelgard.

“I must admit, I was interested in seeing you fight up close,” Edelgard says, taking up her sword once more. “That night, there were too many other things happening. I didn’t get a good look.”

“I’d be lying if I said I also didn’t want to fight you,” Dimitri says. His heart is beating a million times a minute. He hasn’t been so conscious of it since, since the professor embraced him that time. Edelgard doesn’t know they’ve fought before, or have they? To Dimitri, they happened, but here and now, they may as well be fake memories. He doesn’t quite remember the way she fought during war, not clearly enough to use here, and even if he did, she’s hardly the warmonger she grew up to be. She looks him up and down like she’s scrutinizing him for weakness.

Folly.

At Dimitri’s level, it’s a fool’s dream to fight an opponent with any discernible weakness. Even the strongest of warriors can be taken down by a simple mistake, or poor luck, or the right strategy.

Dimitri walks forward, closing the gap between them. He keeps his sword ready, but he doesn’t bother settling into a proper stance. This Edelgard doesn’t know enough to actually challenge him. She hasn’t been taught yet.

Eyes narrowing, Edelgard feints to the right; though she doesn’t put her full force behind the blow, her technique is textbook. Her chest shifts as if she’s going through with the strike, and her eyes dart to Dimitri’s side. What she isn’t prepared for is Dimitri’s own lightning fast sword, slamming into the inside of hers before she can reorient herself for a proper attack. Her eyes widen at the force behind it, tight and controlled, but no less powerful for it. Her breath hisses between her clenched teeth as she manages to keep the sword’s hilt from being wrenched out of her hands.

Dimitri doesn’t advance. He isn’t here to win.

Backing up, Edelgard holds her sword up between them. Her gaze darts around, checking Dimitri’s stance, shoulder-wide and relaxed; his chest, which betrays none of his movements; his nondominant hand, safely tucked against his side; his eyes, intent on hers.

The Eagles are dead silent. During all of Dimitri’s time at the monastery, he hadn’t known the professors to go all-out on the students. Not like this.

“You’re good,” Edelgard says. The respect comes a little more grudgingly than Dimitri’s ever heard in her voice before. He doesn’t know how to answer. She’s not good, not by his standard, and also he’s not sure she’d even believe him if he did return the compliment. While he’s thinking, Edelgard moves, switching to a one-handed grip in search of greater mobility. She’s gauged the strength of Dimitri’s one blow and forfeited the quest to overpower him. Despite himself, Dimitri is impressed with her judgment. Would it have been different had he pressed his advantage, put her on the defensive?

Their swords clash noisily as Dimitri parries each of Edelgard’s blows. There’s still a significant amount of force in each of them, but she broadcasts her intentions too soon. Her control is pretty good though. Most of her attempts might have hit him, had she been more difficult to read. He catches her sword against the hilt of his, stopping its momentum, and slides his blade against the inside of hers. Edelgard twists her arm in an attempt to redirect its course, and there - the overextension. He steps inward so he’s almost shoulder-to-shoulder facing her, then uses his free hand to grab her wrist.

“Ah,” she breathes, right before he twists and drops her to her knees. He’s holding her hand behind her back now, her sword only limply in her grip. He uses his blade to part her hair, baring the nape of her neck. “Well fought.”

Surrender. With the tip of his sword, Dimitri cuts an unsteady slice from Edelgard’s nape down the side of her neck, to where her collarbone begins. Edelgard inhales, then swallows, a movement he only feels through his sword where it connects to her flesh.

It’s not as clean a cut as Edelgard granted Hubert. Dimitri is aware he’s trembling.

He lets her go, lets her rise to her feet, adjusting her hair so that it covers the cut again until she may as well not be bleeding at all. But she knows she is. And Dimitri knows.

“There is no greater lesson than this,” he says so all the class can hear. “When you pick up a sword, you must ready yourself to draw blood with it. That’s the choice you make when you step on a battlefield. There are reasons people tell themselves they fight. Justice. Protection. Family. But those are merely that: reasons. They are not the choice. When you pick up a sword, your choice is blood. It’s violence. It’s ending lives. Ending people.”

Dimitri turns so that he can see the Eagles. Linhardt has gone stark white. Caspar is clenching his jaw, looking at the ground. Ferdinand levels his gaze back at Dimitri, but his eyes are solemn. Bernadetta has her face in her hands, barely standing straight. Dorothea has tears in her eyes. Her head is inclined, her cap casting a shadow against her face. Hubert’s lips are drawn tight, the most intense display of emotion Dimitri has seen on his face before. It’s closer to hatred than anything Dimitri can identify. 

And Edelgard, Edelgard stalls at his side. When Dimitri looks at her, her expression has shuttered. She gives him a curt nod before rejoining her classmates. A trickle of blood has stained a couple strands of her hair dark red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> walking the fine line between “there’s 8 kids in each house” and “there’s DEFINITELY more than 8 kids in each house”


	6. Trouble

Dimitri gets in a lot of trouble. It catches him by surprise, honestly. The professor had always seemed so controlled, fearless even. He hadn’t thought the church kept him on any reins. And model student that he was, Dimitri had certainly never been disciplined by Seteth.

Not so now. Seteth calls Dimitri to his office, and Rhea isn’t there. That’s the first bad sign, which Dimitri decides to overlook. The professor preferred one-on-one company over group activities. It’s possible he and Seteth had meetings like this, alone, no matter what their first impressions of each other were. Seteth is reasonable.

“Do you know why I’ve called you here, Professor?” Seteth asks.

“Is this about Bernadetta?” The girl hasn’t left her room in a couple of days, not even to come to class. Dimitri had gone by her room and failed to extract her. He suspects she’s avoiding her other classes too. She has no friends to coax her to class.

Sitting at his desk, Seteth merely folds his hands together and stares at Dimitri. Not Bernadetta then, he thinks.

“Is it the students? Have there been complaints?” Dimitri says. His first class, sure, was harsh but hardly unwarranted – they are training soldiers here to send into battle. No one has objected to Dimitri’s face, and his following classes have been more or less on par with the professor’s, prioritizing building stamina and muscle. It’s hard work but it’s foundational.

“Complaints,” Seteth mutters. “Listen, professor, I recognize that you have been a mercenary for a long time. I’m sure that…informs your teaching.”

Dimitri keeps his face carefully blank; he’s starting to see why the professor kept his guard up so much. Seteth continues to talk without any input from Dimitri, which is convenient because Dimitri has no idea what the professor’s actual backstory was like.

“However, it is completely unacceptable to mandate students maim each other,” Seteth says. “I don’t know how Jeralt Eisner raised you but we are here to teach discipline and mindfulness, not bloodsport! Do you know I must respond to an inquiry by the duke of Aegir about the professor who allowed a student to be stabbed in class?”

“The church is beholden to the Aegirs?” Dimitri asks, confused.

“Of course not! But the fact is that it is my duty to oversee the Officers Academy, and thus their safety and education is my responsibility. Prominent families all over Fódlan send their scions to the monastery because they trust our guidance and curriculum, and in return their support allows our teachings to reach the farthest corners of the continent.” Seteth crosses his arms, his eyes narrowing as if he doesn’t expect Dimitri to follow. “We instruct the students in combat, yes. Much of what we ask of them involves restoring order to territories in turmoil, and that may, at times, involve force. But we are not teaching them violence.”

Dimitri understands. He can see, also, why someone like Seteth might draw such stringent lines between violence for the sake of good, and violence for the sake of violence. Once, Dimitri troubled himself over the difference between the two. How could one fight for the former without falling into the latter? Was it even possible at all?

The professor had eased those thoughts, at the tail end of the war. It helped to have someone to listen to him talk without moralizing, like… like Ingrid did, with her confident reassurances, or Sylvain with his easy logic. Even Felix called him boar, like there was a way Dimitri could kill without barbarism.

But the professor mostly just listened. And when he spoke, they were the penetrating words of a killer, words Dimitri thought might echo in his heart for the rest of his life: If a righteous fight does not exist, all the more important when you choose to fight anyway.

Perhaps Fódlan has been at peace too long for the professor’s lesson to hold any water here. Not among people like Seteth - this Seteth, who has yet to see a war turn his world to ash. Not among many of the Eagles either, whom Dimitri knows thought his lesson frightening.

It’s fine. Dimitri has been alone for most his life; if he’s too rough around the edges for companionship here, so be it. As long as he can change Edelgard, he doesn’t mind all of Seteth’s scowls and beseeching glares.

“...I’ll take your advice under consideration,” Dimitri says.

He can see Seteth’s fuse go off. “Consideration! Professor, I am not merely giving advice; this is an official reprimand from the church.”

“From the church, huh,” Dimitri mumbles under his breath. As a student, he had never so much as suffered a warning for misbehavior, much less been called to Seteth’s office and delivered a reprimand. Of course, the professor had never been one for regulations. He did not demand respect from his students, nor their obedience. And the Lions were unruly, despite Dimitri and Ingrid’s best efforts to rein them in. Back then, Dimitri would never have imagined looking Seteth straight in the eye like this and disregarding his words.

But.

How trivial such a reprimand is. To Dimitri, it holds so little weight now. So what if he lost the church’s favor? The church’s favor had saved nobody, during the war. What authority did Seteth have to get in Dimitri’s way? Only that he was the professor’s right hand man for five years.

Dimitri takes in Seteth’s full appearance. His vibrant green hair curls above his shoulders, framing his trimmed facial hair. Like the professor, Seteth, too, grew out his hair but barely seemed to age over the five years after the war. Is there a secret there? Seteth’s hair is dark, but Flayn - and Rhea - bear green hair just as the professor did… Whatever the professor was fighting against, is it something the church knows? Could Seteth know the reason Dimitri was sent here?

“The goddess,” Dimitri says. “Do you know what she’s like?”

“What’s this now?” Seteth says warily, but angry or not he’s a teacher through and through. He turns away as he mulls the question over, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. “No one but the goddess herself knows the extent of her power. But she is kind, and she loves all of us like a mother. That is why, as her disciples, it is the church’s duty to guide her children with a loving hand. We may be strict at times, but it is always in the course of guiding humanity to the goddess’s light.”

“If she has no equal… no one to understand her… do you think she’s lonely?” Dimitri asks.

Seteth sends him a sidelong glance. But his ire has abated. “I cannot presume to know her feelings. But. She hears your prayers, listens to the words and fears and dreams of every soul in Fódlan. She carries all of us in her heart, and that you worry about her in that way - I’m sure she appreciates it.”

On the list of things Dimitri desires, the goddess’s appreciation is low. He has the sense not to say so, though. Perhaps Dimitri should be grateful; perhaps the sentiment would have been better appreciated by the professor. So Dimitri bows his head.

“At the very least,” Seteth sniffs, turning back to face Dimitri, “I am glad your father did not shirk his responsibility in teaching you the faith.”

Dimitri chooses to stay silent on that matter as well. If he had to guess, Jeralt does not strike him as a pious man.

“Is that all you require of me?” Dimitri says.

“...as long as you understand how you are to conduct yourself as a professor here, then yes,” Seteth says.

“Then please excuse me.” Dimitri leaves before Seteth actually does, but the man doesn’t call after him in protest so it seems that is etiquette beyond what can be expected of a career mercenary.

He is halfway back to his quarters - past the entrance of the training grounds - when he catches a glimpse of green hair vanishing from the parapet above him. It’s most likely Rhea, or maybe Flayn, Dimitri tells himself but it doesn’t quash that overwhelming hope that rises in his gut.

Taking the stairs by two, Dimitri emerges onto the pavilion above and there he is, radiant as always in the warm sunlight. The professor doesn’t smile at him. Dimitri doesn’t think he could tell the difference between this ghost and the real thing.

“What did you do,” he says gently. No one is around - thank the goddess; Dimitri doesn’t need anyone catching him talking to the air. “What do you want me to do here.”

The phantom is silent, doesn’t even move. The professor’s hair really is long; Dimitri never dwelled on how it reaches his waist, but having existed in this body for about a week, Dimitri can’t help but notice the differences. Their faces are the same now, but Dimitri still feels so far away. What wisdom could the professor impart here? The more Dimitri learns, the less he knows.

“Or do you want nothing from me at all,” he muses aloud. If nothing else, the professor’s phantom seems to be listening. Dimitri is glad for it, though he knows, probably, he only perceives it that way because he wants so desperately to be listened to. 

It’s lonely here.

“Is it a mercy or a curse that I see you here,” Dimitri says. He had always thought these visions to be punishments for his past. The professor takes a step forward, like he _ knows_, and Dimitri’s eyes go immediately to him. Of course the professor never demanded Dimitri’s obedience… As long as the professor was here, Dimitri would happily follow.

His ears pick up the sound of people climbing the staircase, and Dimitri has just enough time to step back into his professor persona before Edelgard emerges from the staircase. Hubert von Vestra is a step behind her.

“Ah, Professor,” she says, sounding surprised. Dimitri is acutely aware that the professor hasn’t moved. “What are you doing up here?”

“...I was looking for something,” Dimitri says.

“In the sauna?” Edelgard asks.

Dimitri casts his eyes toward the building behind them. “No… Please, put it out of your mind. Were you on your way in?”

His voice breaks as the professor enters his field of vision; his feet don’t move, hovering a scant distance above the ground. Dimitri can’t help but follow the phantom, even knowing Edelgard and Hubert are here.

“Is that so strange?” comes Edelgard’s reply. Then after Dimitri lets a few beats pass by, she queries, “Professor?”

Dimitri forces himself to look at her. “Sorry, what? Oh. I just wouldn’t have thought it was appropriate to go in with Hubert.”

Hubert’s venomous smile would dispel any illusion he cares for Dimitri’s presence here. “Rest assured, there is nothing inappropriate between Lady Edelgard and me. I go wherever she requires.”

Dimitri is sure now that the duo has piqued the professor’s interest. The phantom peers owlishly between them. Such a thing shouldn’t be possible - the professor exists only in Dimitri’s mind. He shouldn’t interact with the real world. Edelgard and Hubert clearly couldn’t see him.

“Of course, it was ridiculous of me to suggest,” Dimitri says. Suddenly, the professor vanishes. Dimitri can’t help but flinch.

Both Hubert and Edelgard look for what has startled him, but there is nothing. Of course. There was nothing there to begin with. Dimitri makes himself breathe.

“Perhaps the professor is tired,” Hubert suggests. It sounds like an insult.

“Yes, I’m sure all of this is different from what you’re used to,” Edelgard agrees, her even tone taking the bite out of it. “I did want to speak with you about something, professor, but…”

“No, what is it?” Dimitri asks. The ghost is gone. He can focus again. “If it’s about class, I’m no longer allowed to oversee duelling, so please don’t worry about that.”

The corners of Edelgard’s lips turn upward. “No, it’s not about that. I don’t know if you’ve heard yet, but the mock battle is in a couple of days.”

Dimitri has to mouth “mock battle” before he remembers. There was something like that early in the year. Yes, a practice fight for the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. The Lions had won, of course.

“I’ve heard, yes. Are you worried about it?”

Edelgard flips her hair over her shoulder. The long white strands catch in the light, pearlescent.

“Of course not. The Kingdom and the Alliance have some promising fighters, but they are no match for us. I was only curious if you intended to impart some kind of strategy… Some of us are more prepared to fight than others,” Edelgard says.

She and Dimitri look towards the dormitories at the same time.

“Do not worry, Lady Edelgard,” Hubert says. “I will ensure all the students attend the mock battle.” 

“It may be more prudent to leave Bernadetta to someone with a...gentler hand,” Dimitri says. “I’ve gone to her room a couple times but she’s quite resilient.”

“I’m sure Hubert will handle it sensitively,” Edelgard says. “He may look like this but he’s quite dependable.”

Hubert, at least, finds humor in her words. “I am unworthy of your flattery, Lady Edelgard.”

Struggling to keep the doubt off his face, Dimitri looks away. The two of them are close. He knew it in his head but seeing it like this makes the absence of the Lions - _ his _Lions - ache deep in Dimitri’s chest. 

“I’m curious to see how the Eagles will fare against the other houses,” Dimitri says. “Do you two know what we’re up against?”

“Claude will surely come up with some kind of annoying scheme, but it’ll be more of an inconvenience than any actual threat. I think I could take Dimitri one-on-one, but we’ll have to be wary of the other Lions. Some of them seem to take training very seriously.” Edelgard delivers her assessment without hedging. 

“Let’s see… It’s Manuela teaching the Lions, huh.” Dimitri actually doesn’t know what to make of that. He can’t really imagine a class with Manuela, Sylvain, and Ingrid in the same room. Surely it’s disruptive. She seems much more suited for teaching a class like the Eagles, as she had when the professor taught the Lions.

“I don’t know how strong Professor Manuela is, but I believe she will not be a match for you, professor. This should be an easy win for the Eagles,” Edelgard says.

Dimitri looks away, catching Hubert’s eyes as they narrow. “It wouldn’t be fair for me to compete as well. I’ll content myself with observing.”

“Oh, is that so?” Furrowing her brow for a brief second, Edelgard leans into Hubert as she thinks. She doesn’t even seem cognizant of the movement, and of course, Hubert does not protest.

“I hope that doesn’t put you at too much of a disadvantage,” Dimitri says. “It’s hardly an aptitude test for students if I participate too. My experience with battle is...different from the people here.”

“Pity,” says Hubert. “I was hoping to see more of you in action, Professor. You were quite the spectacle the other day.” He makes no attempt to hide the way his eyes run up and down Dimitri’s body, lingering meaningfully at the sword hanging at Dimitri’s hip.

“All the more reason to sit out,” Dimitri says. “I got yelled at the last time I raised my sword against a student.”

Dimitri doesn’t think he imagines the air turning a couple degrees colder. Hubert’s smile grows sharper, certainly.

“I can’t say I’m not curious about your methods,” Edelgard says. “Did your father teach you that way?”

“...no,” Dimitri admits. Dimitri doesn’t really know the extent of what Jeralt taught the professor - not history or arithmetic or theology. To be honest, Dimitri might not even recall anything his own father had taught him. If Lambert imparted any wisdom during the brief time they had together, the memories have escaped Dimitri. “Perhaps I tried to teach too much too quickly. They are lessons I refused to learn until it was too late.”

“As you say, there are simply some experiences you have that we do not,” Edelgard says. Her words come a little too prettily to be altogether honest. “But there is wisdom there, I think. For what it’s worth, I appreciated the lesson.”

“Yes, it was enlightening,” Hubert says.

As students, Dimitri had not taken many opportunities to interact with Edelgard and Hubert, and he’s beginning to remember why. They are made wholly out of intrigue, and the knowledge Dimitri has of their plans this time around alleviates none of it. Back then, he’d wanted to understand them - her. What had made her this way, so different from the little girl he’d known? He’d never gotten close enough to ask.

“I’m glad you thought so. I never anticipated being in this position,” Dimitri says. 

“Is it true you grew up outside of the church’s influence?” Edelgard asks.

Dimitri takes a second to answer. That first year at the academy, the professor had been laughably ignorant about the state of Fódlan - not just the church, but even political happenings on a broad scale. Jeralt the Blade Breaker was renown all across Faerghus, but no one back home had heard of his child. Dimitri had received many concerned reports about how much of an enigma his new teacher was. The ministry there was not impressed by a backwater hooligan who didn't know a hymn from a psalm.

But Dimitri had just demonstrated a passable, perhaps even nuanced, interest in the faith in Seteth’s office. Should he endeavor to imitate the professor? Or risk drawing Seteth’s suspicion if Dimitri’s behavior came off as contradictory? And surely Jeralt himself would notice if his supposed son suddenly became pious?

“Not entirely,” he says. “My father did not raise me to believe, but I picked up some things from clients...and villages we passed through.”

“Ah.” Edelgard looked a bit disappointed, which was to be expected. “Still, it’s strange…”

She cuts herself off - at least verbally. Hubert still reacts as if she’s completed a full thought, parting his lips to respond. But he also goes silent.

“That’s quite rude, isn’t it?” Dimitri asks. “Have my lessons been deficient?”

He thinks he’s greatly improved upon the professor’s lessons. For one, Dimitri can actually name all the countries outside Fódlan, and a good number of the territories within it too. He’s even able to answer questions about sums and economics.

“Oh, I did not intend offense, professor,” Edelgard says. “Though unorthodox, I cannot say I haven’t learned a great deal.”

“Lady Edelgard,” Hubert says.

“Hm. Please excuse us, professor. Hubert and I should be on our way.” She says it smoothly, like there was no interruption and she’d come to a conclusion on her own.

“Enjoy,” Dimitri says, bringing another smile to Edelgard’s lips. He steps aside, letting Edelgard pass to ascend the steps up to the sauna. Hubert immediately falls in line behind her, using his tall frame to obscure her back from view. Dimitri waits for the doors to close behind them before he takes the stairs down to the courtyard.

The two of them are brazen. It’s a wonder how no one caught onto their schemes, if they draft their plots on monastery grounds. Perhaps Dimitri is too uncharitable; perhaps they really do just enjoy each other’s company in private, though it’s hard to even envision the pair relaxing in a sauna, casually discussing homework.

Well, Edelgard always was difficult to approach back then. If she cultivated such an image, her frequent meetings with Hubert might have passed merely as loneliness.

How, then, could Dimitri weasel his way into her good graces? If he is to redirect the future, then first he must find a way to learn of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im back, thanks to unemployment. also because this is (unsurprisingly) my most high profile fic and i want praise


	7. Mock Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c/w: canon-typical violence but an emphasis on the physical trauma of it

Wonders upon wonders, both Bernadetta and Linhardt show up to the mock battle. The latter is hauled bodily there by Caspar; the former shows up a few minutes late, armor askew, with Hubert expressionless a couple paces behind her. 

Manuela and Hanneman both express concern when Dimitri tells them his presence on the field is to observe his students only.

“We can’t exactly participate in good conscience if the Black Eagle house is down a man,” Hanneman muses.

“Oh, come now, professor!” Manuela says. “Having us adults on the field adds another layer of pressure for the kids! They’ll have to learn how to deal with enemies beyond their scope of experience. It’s hardly just us beating on them.”

“Still,” Dimitri says. “Teaching is one thing, but...I use my sword to kill. That’s what its purpose is.”

Manuela balks at that, and even Hanneman is rendered silent. Dimitri could be off base, thinking of them as innocent but their shock still curls, warm and fond, in the pits of his chest. That they don’t understand can only be a good thing. He hopes these versions of them never do.

After the houses convene at their separate bases, Dimitri tells the Eagles, “I told Professor Manuela and Professor Hanneman that you guys would beat their houses, even without me.”

“We will not disappoint you, professor,” Ferdinand says.

“Disappoint?” Dorothea murmurs, quietly enough that Dimitri supposes she doesn’t intend for him to hear her. “But isn’t this just setting us up for disappointment?”

“What will our strategy be?” Petra asks. “We could wait until the other houses are taking each other out.”

“Whew! Ruthless, Petra,” Caspar says. “We can’t let them have all the fun.”

“Not a bad strategy,” Edelgard says. “Though I don’t suppose it would show off our superior skills. It sounds like something the Deer would try.”

“Caspar, come here,” Dimitri says. Each house was provided with an array of blunted weapons to equip themselves for battle - not mere practice ones, but real weapons. Even dull, they will have no problems injuring other students. Dimitri runs his thumb over the head of an arrow in a quiver before handing it over to Caspar, along with a bow. “You’ll be using this today.”

“Um, what?” Caspar goes.

“Do you have much experience with archery?”

“Just the couple times you made us shoot the other day,” says Caspar.

“Hm,” says Dimitri. “Maybe one of your classmates can give you pointers. Petra.”

She approaches, eyeing the stack of weapons with curiosity. “Yes, professor?”

“I’d like you to use these gauntlets today.” Dimitri selects a worn pair that resembles armored gloves for her. “In real battle, many gauntlets use claws or spikes to rend flesh, but even a pair like this can break bones.”

“I-I hope to not be breaking too many bones today,” says Petra. She pulls the gloves on. They’re a little too big for her but she curls her hands into fists anyway.

“Keep your thumb on the outside,” Dimitri reminds her. “If you punch with your thumb tucked in, the force could dislocate it.”

“Yes, I’m remembering now.” She adjusts, and Dimitri turns to the rest of the class.

To Bernadetta, he bequeaths a sword, a weapon that will bring her into the thick of battle and requires enough dexterity and grace to wield that she’ll have to use it purposefully. Ferdinand accepts a bow with a grimace; all the better to teach him how to support his allies, instead of rushing into the fray. Hubert gets an axe; the large weapon proportionally matches his farme but he holds it with such discomfort, it looks alien in his grip.

“Edelgard,” Dimitri says, and holds out a lance for her. She takes it, bemused. It takes her a moment to find a comfortable grip on it.

“Professor, what is the point of this exercise?” she asks.

“I told you that first class I would teach you all to use every weapon under the sun, didn’t I?” Dimitri says. “Dorothea. What weapon would you like?”

Dorothea looks startled to be put on the spot when none of her classmates had. “O-oh, um… I have a bit of experience with swords?” Dimitri just looks at her, and she stammers, “But if you mean a weapon that will challenge me, I could try...a lance?”

“You may choose whichever weapon you desire,” Dimitri says.

She makes a pretty unhappy noise as she surveys what’s left: a few old looking swords, a lance matching Edelgard’s, a small hatchet, and some ratty gauntlets. “I’ll take the sword,” she squeaks eventually, grabbing one at random and darting away.

Dimitri lets her, even after Ferdinand huffs over someone else getting their first choice of weapon. He instead turns his gaze on Linhardt, the final Eagle.

“Which one do you want?” Dimitri asks.

Linhardt looks at the rack of weapons, though he seems to regard the whole stand with trepidation. His eyes don’t settle on anything.

“Um, none of them?” he tries.

“OK,” says Dimitri, and doesn’t arm him. Linhardt’s eyes widen a fraction, surprised he got away with that gambit. “Gather around, kids. They should be calling the beginning of the fight at any moment now, so let me tell you how to win.

“Bows are support units; use your arrows early to thin the ranks and retreat. If you get cornered alone, you’re done. Swords, you are nimble infantry. You’ll need to keep a cool head to make critical judgments in the thick of it. Lances, use your range to control the space around you. Petra, hit ‘em hard and fast. And don’t be afraid to fight dirty. Hubert, the army relies on your axe. Cleave through the enemy’s defences. Linhardt. Keep your eyes open, healer. They’ll target you first.”

...

The battle goes more or less as Dimitri expects. There are a couple more snafus than Dimitri recalls from his own battle. Afterward, the Eagles file into their classroom stony-faced and disheveled. Manuela had fixed up the worst injuries, but a fair few of them wince as they sit. Patches of caked dirt and, in some instances, blood mark most of their clothing. Some of it is probably unsalvageable, particularly around the knees and forearms where the kids caught themselves from hitting the ground.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Dimitri begins with the full intention to run through the battle again and dissect each decision the Eagles had made. But Caspar slams his fist against his desk before he can finish his thought.

“That was bullshit!” Caspar cries, punctuated by a long moan by Linhardt, who has foregone sitting in a chair entirely and taken a facedown position against the classroom floor.

Dimitri surveys the faces of his students. He hadn’t thought they’d be happy with how the mock battle went, but he’s surprised that many of them won’t even look at him. His stomach tightens, looking around at them, and he isn’t sure why. Was he cruel? Perhaps a little, in the service of something greater. They would come to appreciate it. Dimitri and the Lions had, despite how bewildering they’d found the professor at first. And they could understand without words that Byleth would never let harm come to them. 

Dimitri knows he would protect each of his students - no, every student here at the academy - he’d protect all of them with his own body. From bandits, from monsters, from a looming future only Dimitri could see. Nothing would crush these children, even if Dimitri had to reforge them in iron and fire to make sure of it. 

But none of that reassurance is reflected back at Dimitri in his students’ eyes. They’re afraid. Bernadetta’s eyes are rubbed raw and swollen with how hard she cried when Felix disarmed her and maneuvered her to her knees, arm twisted harshly behind her back. Dimitri can’t read Dorothea’s expression at all; one of the Deer - Raphael - had caught her sword with his hands and in the ensuing struggle accidentally elbowed her in the face, breaking her nose.

Linhardt twitched from where he lay prone against the stone tile. He had made an effort to hide but his classmates had been too preoccupied with their own trials that the Deer found him alone quickly. Hilda knocked him out and had two of the deer drag his unconscious body across a clearing and tie him to a tree.

Ferdinand’s arms are crossed in front of his chest and his frown is so deep Dimitri might even call it a scowl. He had managed to catch Annette in the meat of the thigh with a lucky arrow before the Alliance kids grabbed him from behind. In Ferdinand’s panic, he’d bashed the bow against the back of a bespectacled kid’s head and been so scandalized with himself that he offered no resistance when Claude kneecapped him twice to keep him from escaping.

Caspar had fared worse, exhausting the entire contents of his quiver into distant shrubbery. As good as unarmed, he’d taken on Ingrid and Sylvain bare-handed with proud ferocity and been rewarded with a few cracked ribs and a dislocated elbow.

Petra had stood her ground admirably and even managed to take out Ashe and one of the Deer girls. But close combat with gauntlets expended more energy than she was used to, and a well-placed spell from young Lysithea had disturbed her momentum; it also made short work of one of her sleeves, revealing a myriad of dark bruises from going a couple rounds with Dedue that had resulted in him pinning her to the ground with enough force to give her a concussion.

And Edelgard and Hubert. His hair is askew and he simmers. She sits in her chair with her back straight. Her mouth is a straight line too, and her eyes pierce Dimitri like he’s the puzzle.

She likely had assessed the situation just as Dimitri had and determined her odds of surviving were higher getting rid of the dead weight: once the Eagles had started falling apart, she certainly abandoned them fast enough, taking only Hubert with her. Dimitri assumes she’d given him pointers for his axe, though he possessed neither the strength to control it nor the confidence to utilize its power. Edelgard herself had ended up a fair hand with the lance by the time she came face-to-face with the younger Dimitri. Though the unfamiliar form took a toll on her speed and she tended to overextend herself, she understood the basic concept of thrusting the pointy end towards an enemy.

It wasn’t enough to eke out a victory against Dimitri, who had been trained by the finest spearmen the Kingdom had to offer. The young Dimitri had appeared completely bemused at Edelgard’s weapon of choice yet unhesitantly outmaneuvered her; during her moment of weakness, Hubert had cast aside his axe and made to fire a spell before being struck by one of Claude’s arrows. 

And then the young Dimitri had done something so humiliating even Dimitri’s chest ached; after driving Edelgard to her knees, he did not incapacitate her according to the rules of the brawl. Instead he prompted her verbal surrender and offered her his hand.

Dimitri can see a little of their anger: they’d spoken of victory and looked towards him to lead them there, and he deliberately humbled them. Still.

During the war, empire soldiers had perished by the legions: riddled with arrows or bisected by a sharp blade, or burned alive with fire or crushed under the hooves of cavalry. Dedue slew Ferdinand on the Great Bridge of Myrddin - Dimitri remembers that, the momentous victory of taking down a key general of the empire. Petra died in Enbarr. She took down almost a full company by herself, just with her little daggers, and died an excruciatingly slow death afterward; she was still clinging to life, Annette had reported to Dimitri, by the time the kingdom took Enbarr. They even tried to save her, to salvage that fragile relationship between Fódlan and Brigid. But, well, there were other things that were more important.

Enbarr, also, was where they killed Hubert. He was the general there. His dark magic tore through several platoons of Kingdom soldiers. Sylvain and Ingrid both had to flank him to penetrate his defences - and Sylvain took a spell to the ribs that took the attention of several healers to recover from. It had cost Hubert Ingrid’s spear through his chest, and still - _ and still _ \- he’d shot her pegasus from the sky and died on his feet.

And Edelgard. So ruined by the time they got to her that Dimitri might even have been able to delude himself into thinking it wasn’t her he was killing, if he’d tried hard enough. No honor in that death. No pride.

Dimitri looks at each of the Eagles. “Tell me then. What do you seek to learn from me? And what can I do to teach you?”

“It would help if you stopped trying to humiliate us,” Dorothea says, with far more venom than she intends. She immediately clamps her mouth shut and scans her classmates in alarm, like someone else put those words in her mouth.

But her vehemence breaks a dam in the Eagles classroom.

“I am just wanting to understand all your lessons and the reasons you are making us do things,” Petra says.

At the same time, Ferdinand goes, “Let me be the first to admit I have shortcomings, but I feel you have been unfair to us. We are not naive children picking up swords for the first time.”

“It’s like you want us to fail!” Bernadetta cries. Even Linhardt manages an extended moan from the floor.

And, voice carrying above all the clamor from his classmates, Caspar yells, “We want to be good fighters, but… but that doesn’t mean we want to be mindless soldiers like you!”

There’s a brief, thunderously silent pause. 

Dimitri can’t help but look at Edelgard. She is regarding her classmates with new eyes. There’s fire in her - fire that was put out of Dimitri a long time ago. He is only made out of fear.

She says only, “Teach us. Do not demand.”

Dimitri lowers his head. Better to hide his face while he thinks. Of course trust comes before teaching. The professor achieved it so effortlessly, but Dimitri knows he cannot compare to Byleth. The professor’s knowledge came straight from the soul. Dimitri is damaged ten times over; those lessons are his lifeline, but he cannot throw the same line to these children while he is still drowning.

“I want to listen,” Dimitri starts, then stops. He begins again. “I apologize.”

Better.

“Professor,” Dorothea says, still obviously stricken. “I’m sorry too. We didn’t mean all those things… We just… It’s just been a little frustrating, that’s all.”

“I meant it,” Caspar puts in.

“The truth is...I’m a little messed up,” Dimitri says. “That’s the cost of fighting. It takes as much out of you as you take from your foes. I wanted to show you my world. It’s a world some of you may walk into, in the future, without knowing it. And I’m sorry that it scared you.”

Dorothea wipes some tears from her eyes. Dimitri isn’t sure if they’re from sympathy or if her adrenaline has simply left her. Ferdinand peers imploringly at him. Caspar bites his lip, looking regretful. 

Bernadetta breaks the silence this time. “Then I don’t want to fight,” she says, only audible because everyone else is still.

The idea is nice. A world where none of them will have to. Dimitri risks a glance at Edelgard. Is it his imagination that she’s smiling, wistfully, just for a moment?

“I promise each of you. I will allow nothing to happen to you while you’re in my care...if you’ll allow me to be your professor,” Dimitri says.

Ferdinand nods. Petra follows; then Edelgard signals her approval, which lowers Hubert’s hackles. Linhardt raises his head, propping himself up by the elbows. “If you must,” he says.

Dorothea grips her arm tightly, tan flesh going white beneath her fingers, before uttering the quietest, “OK.” Bernadetta nods beside her too, a rapid, diminutive movement.

“OK,” Dimitri echoes.

It’s small. But it’s a foothold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i asked my roommate if this was too much violence, and she gave me permission to write this scene so it’s her fault


End file.
